


The Perplexities of Human Relations

by fachefaucheux



Series: Post-Canticle One-Shots [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Awkward First Times, Awkward Romance, Catholic Guilt, Fantasy, First Time, Fluff, Height Differences, Humor, M/M, POV Alternating, Romance, Size Difference, Slash, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, seriously it's ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6888358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fachefaucheux/pseuds/fachefaucheux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a 300-year-old eldritch horror is hard. Being a 300-year-old eldritch horror in love is even worse. </p>
<p>After an unnaturally long bout of the will-he-won't-he business, Genesis finally summons the nerve to make a move on his long-time friend/not very secret crush, Mirk. However, he soon finds out that the first move wasn't even the hardest part. What is a date, exactly? How does this whole "making out" thing work? And, more importantly, why aren't there any decent books on the subject? Mirk, on the other hand, soon finds that Catholic guilt has nothing on dealing with Genesis's stubborn refusal to proceed unless everything's perfect. Or on attempting to carry on an intimate relationship with someone who's a foot and a half taller than he is.</p>
<p>A sweet, heartwarming tale of a love finally consummated...awkwardly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Perplexities of Human Mate Selection

**Author's Note:**

> As I'm entirely incapable of going for extended periods of time working on the same project (or without some decent smut), here's a short(er) story in what will inevitably become a collection of shorts about how Gen and Mirk's relationship develops once they finally stop being terrified of abandonment and actually get together. Reading Canticle before reading any of these is not technically necessary at all, but it may make your experience more amusing.
> 
> Of course, every good first-time story comes with unhelpful advice from "experienced" friends. Unfortunately, Gen's "friends" are mostly experienced in hookers and shady hookups in bars. Gen gets the most of the POV time this chapter, but later ones may be more Mirk-heavy or equally divided.
> 
> This chapter contains rather simplistic views on gender/sexuality/etc., but considering how Gen's not entirely sure on what the actual difference between men and women is, that's basically par for the course.

They both looked out over the still-smoking valley, side by side, watching the divisions retreat back to the City of Glass. The day had started out sunny, but it had clouded over fast, perhaps in anticipation of the chaos that was to come. 

Mirk looked over at Genesis. He was worn ragged—clothes torn, hair disheveled, still bleeding from a multitude of cuts. And yet, he seemed composed, somehow, almost pensive. Mirk was unable to keep from thinking back to the scene on the top of the ridge, of coming back to life only to find himself in Genesis’s arms, the commander hunched over him, his eyes glassy as if he was on the verge of tears. Would that finally be it, then? Would nearly losing each other once again shove them both over the edge, away from maybe-sort of affections, too-chaste hugs but too-sensual embraces, out of the uncertain twilight place between friends and lovers? Mirk knew it was a silly line of thinking, something meant for a boy of fifteen to be worrying over, not a man who was over three-hundred, but with Genesis, it seemed everything went backward, _especially_ when it came to relationships…

“It’s over,” Mirk commented, in a voice just above a whisper, to break the heavy silence that had fallen between them.

Genesis nodded. “And we…have won. In all practical senses of the term.”

“What now?” What then, what happened next, after the battle was over? What would happen to him, to them? Would he go back to living alone in his cave, distant from everyone, or would he be allowed, against logic, to stay with Genesis? Had the tears been a fluke, a moment’s lapse of control? Or was it…

“We prepare for the next time.”

Another silence fell. Mirk summoned all the nerve he had in him and spoke up again. “I had thought you were gone for real this time.”

Genesis took a long time in responding, not lifting his gaze from the valley below. “As did I…think the same of you.”

“But here we are, _messire_.”

“Yes…here we are.”

Silence again. Until Genesis turned away from the valley to look down at him, expression guarded. “I believe…I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“All of…this.”

Mirk shook his head, managing to muster up a smile. “It’s not your fault. You weren’t…yourself.”

“And yet…” he trailed off, looking almost awkward, shifting slightly from foot to foot, picking with annoyance at one of the rips in his clothing.

“Hmm?”

It happened in an instant, Genesis using his uncanny speed to stoop down and, just barely, kiss him. He whisked away before Mirk could respond other than by gaping at him, at his turned back. “I am…sorry.”

“It…it’s okay…” Mirk flushed a bit at the tell-tale trembling of his own voice.

“I must see to the divisions.”

And with that he was gone, striding off down the hill, leaving Mirk alone to wonder what it was exactly that had just happened.

There was a rustling in the bushes off to his left. Julia emerged, looking twice as battered as Genesis had, a vicious grin on her face.

“Fucking finally! Jesus Christ, if that wasn’t enough to do it, I would have fucking killed that bastard…”

Mirk recoiled from her, eyes wide. “You…you were watching?”

Julia scoffed. “I’m not some sort of fucking weirdo. You two assholes took _my_ spot. I was going to leave anyway, but I figured I might as well see what giving up my last fucking resurrection spell got me. I mean, saving the world and all, yeah, whatever, but if neither of you were going to do something to keep all this from happening again, I’d have to kill the Creep. You know. Good of mankind and that shit.”

“I’m sorry…” Mirk mumbled, cringing.

Julia waved him off, though she couldn’t hide the look of bitterness that crossed her face. “Whatever. It was just something I had to do. I’ll figure something else out. Anyway.” She passed by him on her way to the edge of the valley and clapped him on the shoulder, the weight of her armor making it feel more like a proper hit. “Congrats.”

“For…for what?”

“I’m pretty sure the Creep just asked you to be his boyfriend.”

“He didn’t say anything…”

“Well, of course he fucking didn’t. Has that bastard ever had the balls to say it like it is?”

“Methinks he does tend to be a little vague, yes.”

“Trust me on this one.”

“O…okay…”

Julia turned back to him, grinning, but not without a hint of malice. “Welcome to hell, Mirk.”

The fluttering in his chest, however, begged to differ.

\- - - - -

“…useless.”

Disgusted, Genesis tossed the last book of the extensive collection he’d assembled for that evening’s research aside, giving it over to the shadows rather than bothering to reshelve it. He considered it an act of charity, not one of frustration. No other man, he thought, deserved to waste his time on such vague, non-linear, non-comprehensive idiocy.

Genesis had been through every book he could find regarding human courtship rituals and, on the whole, he felt even less certain of where he stood than he had when he’d started out.

The only fragments of information he’d ever been given on the subject from a proper source, Apollyon, were proving to not be very helpful. Upon questioning his tutor on the odd touching rituals that took place between him and Lucifer, Apollyon had given a tired sigh and told Genesis, much to his bemusement, that such were the ways of most other races and groups. Aside from the ritual used to create the parasitic creature that would, upon the development of independent will, become a proper entity called a _child_ , there were similar rituals done for the sole purpose of reinforcing trust and closeness. Such rituals, he said, were to either quell or satisfy both instinct and the gesture-rules of greater society. It was best to consult a good encyclopedia or expert on the gesture-rules of the culture of one’s companion and conform to the given advice. K’maneda gestures of trust and appreciation went largely unnoticed by non-K’maneda, Apollyon had concluded, making the gesture for dismissal and patience—such a question wasn’t relevant to his training at that point in time. 

The elder Destroyer had been correct: courtship rituals had been completely worthless to him for several years, until he’d found himself stuck with K’aekniv and his relentless pursuit of _females_. (Whom Genesis felt he still didn’t quite understand—Apollyon had told them that _females_ were a subtype of the more humanoid races who were the same as _males_ , aside from slight physical variations, but he’d quickly found out that his tutor had neglected to tell him that treating them similarly was enough to get him either beaten or accidentally engaged.) At which point everything had gotten to be more confusing than he could stomach and he’d written it all off as some sort of passing insanity caused by submitting too easily to the demands of one’s physical form. 

Of course, that left him ill-prepared for when his mind had decided, against his will, to agree with his body’s distracting commentary on the bodies of others, but that was a whole other mess.

Despite Apollyon’s warning that Earth humans had no idea how to react to K’maneda gestures, Genesis had felt the need to at least make an attempt at using them. Mirk was a healer; healers were understanding. Empathic. Intuitive. There was a chance, at least, that he’d be understood. But all his gestures, even the most obvious ones, had gone unreciprocated. The traditional practice of shared silence while in close proximity to one’s chosen companion, which had the best chances of being understood, he thought, as it was very similar to the Earth ritual of “keeping company,” seemed to be making Mirk more upset than contented. Which left him with the daunting task of trying, against all odds, to understand the courtship rituals of Earth-born humanoids. Quickly. Before his knee-jerk attempt at initiating a closer relationship was written off as a mistake and he was stuck, yet again, fruitlessly trying to find some other way to begin. 

Sighing, Genesis turned to the only print material he had left: the magazines.

Normally, he wasn’t fond of the things. They tended toward the salacious and the inaccurate. But one thing he had learned during the course of his frantic (and accordingly sloppy) research was that acceptable courtship rituals underwent rapid and constant changes. The magazines, even if ultimately unhelpful, would at least be timelier. Genesis prodded the first of them off the small pile of issues that he could stomach perusing, a pink and violet thing that had commentary about notable mortals and their hideous clothing on the cover. There was, he was given to understand, also information in it somewhere regarding the views of women on the mental habits and physical tendencies of the modern man. K’aekniv and the rest of the Russians read that kind of magazine from time to time, cursing it and women in general as they huddled around it and discussed its contents, usually getting exceptionally drunk afterwards. Regardless of whether the advice came from a woman, a man was a man, Genesis thought. The applicability, logically, would be universal.

After a few annoyed minutes of flipping through pages of photographs of mortals he didn’t recognize, he finally found something potentially useful— _Ten Dating Dos and Don’ts_. “Dating” was the modern term for courtship, he was given to understand, though he couldn’t understand the relationship between determining the age of a material and engaging in close companionship. Steeling himself against the inevitable confusion to come, he read the first point on the “do” list.

♦ _Be Positive—No one likes a complainer, and neither will he! Keep your thoughts about the service, the food, and the couples around you to yourself on that all-important first dinner-date. And keep your conversation light too: nothing scares a man off like hearing all about your psycho ex._

Genesis frowned. He failed to see the connection between optimism and companionability. Or between shoddy service and compatibility. Shaking his head, he read on.

♦ _Be Playful—The best part about the initial stage of a relationship (other than the wild sex) is trying new things and having fun. Do something exciting or go somewhere new._

His frown deepened. Something exciting? Somewhere new? _Wild sex?_

♦ _Be Mysterious—You don’t want to show all your cards at once…you’ve got to keep him coming back for more! If you_

Muttering under his breath, he flipped the page, turning to the list of “don’ts.” It was hardly possible to be mysterious to someone who’d poked through his innards on a regular basis for the past three centuries. Perhaps the warnings would be more applicable.

♦ _Don’t Be Needy—…even if you are. The less needy, the better. Sure, if you have to go chug some juice before your blood sugar gets too low, go ahead and say so, but calling him the morning after your second or third date? Awkward._

Genesis had a suspicion that refusing to contact Mirk for a day after each time he engaged him in conversation would only end with him being perceived as cold and the healer drinking himself into a coma. That aside, it was difficult to avoid someone when they lived in your house. And when they worked for the same organization you did. And when they were the only person who could reliably reattach your limbs in a crisis situation. 

♦ _Don’t Be Bossy—It may seem outdated, but the fact remains—a man likes to take charge. Leave the game face at the office and_

Again, he was reaching the end of his patience. The thought of anyone being interested in a servile, witless companion baffled him. Besides, if the proposed theory was correct, and it was instinctual for males in particular to take the initiative, where did that leave him? Skimming the rest of the list and finding it distinctly wanting (and heavily focused on external body parts he was definitely (and thankfully) lacking in), he flicked the magazine off the table and watched, with a bit of relief, as the shadows reduced it to nothing. Mustering the remains of his determination, he cast a suspicious look in the direction of the next magazine on the stack. 

It had one of those odd men who seemed to be in vogue on the front cover—unruly hair, a five o’clock shadow, tanned an embarrassing orangey color, moderately muscled, possessed of an unexplained lack of clothing. And lightly oiled. They were always oiled. It perplexed him: how was looking like one was about to be run through with a skewer and grilled supposed to be alluring? It was enough to make him ill. Enough to make him heave another sigh and shove the whole pile off the side of the table, staring blankly at its now-empty surface as he listened to the things in the shadows chitter happily over their unexpected feast. 

“Ah! Genesis, my friend! I have a thing for you.”

Though all evidence of his prior activities had been destroyed, Genesis still instinctively swiped an arm over the table when startled out of his brooding by the approaching sound of heavy footsteps. Fortunately, K’aekniv was too distracted by whatever he wanted from him to notice his reaction. 

“…what?”

Grinning, K’aekniv pulled out the chair on the other side of the table and collapsed onto it, nearly breaking it. With a tell-tale air of innocence, the Russian fished a crumpled sheet of paper out of his greatcoat’s front pocket, attempting to smooth it a bit before handing it to him. “These papers-works! Terrible! You pay Comrade Frederick too much for this business, I think. What man would ask for papers-works before giving the infantry who won the war their monthly pay, eh?”

Money. He should have known. The only reason why K’aekniv ever willingly read a piece of paper was if it was guaranteed to result in liquor or money to spend on liquor. Or sexual relations. Sighing, Genesis took the sheet from him and gave it a quick once-over, reaching in the breast pocket of his coat for a pen. Admittedly, even he recognized that demanding completed forms before paying the men and women who’d, mere days ago, pledged their lives to repel the Empire, was rather inconsiderate.

As he scowled and scrawled curt answers into the form’s various blanks, he heard a faint, sickly whimpering off to his left. One of the larger Abyssal creatures picking on one of the smaller ones, he thought. Or one of the larger ones had picked on the wrong small one and was presently nursing a severed tentacle.

There was a hacking noise, like a cat coughing up a particularly large hairball. Annoyed, Genesis shot a glare in the direction of the sound only to see something twisted and dark the size of an ottoman spitting a pile of mangled magazines out its three mouths. Genesis was too frozen in horror to react before K’aekniv had leaned over to examine them, entirely unconcerned with the thing in the shadows that was still making disgusted noises and spewing out mail-in postcards.

“Huh? This…” K’aekniv’s expression went strained as he tried to read the cover of the nearest magazine, the task of having to insert missing letters into the English words testing the persistence of his curiosity. “Twenty…moh, ah, moves to…mah…kye…ni…no, him, cah…rayeveh…sex with…” 

_Of all the times for him to strain his linguistic competence_ , Genesis thought to himself crossly, fixing his face in a blank look as he returned to the form, doing his best to ignore K’aekniv’s mumbling.

“Now… _suka, blyad_ …stupid English letters, no sense…oh! How to…make…him…lo…veh…”

Genesis shoved the completed form across the table at K’aekniv, hoping to distract him. No such luck. 

“Wait, what is this name? Huh…this man on the front, he looks womanly, I think, somehow…”

“Do you…want your damn money…or not?”

Abruptly, K’aekniv sat up in his chair again, squinting across the table at him for a moment before the light of realization came onto his face and he burst into laughter. Cursing under his breath in _c’ayetnak_ , Genesis tried to snatch the form back, but K’aekniv’s massive palm smacked down onto it before he could snag it, the Russian leaning across the table and leering at him.

“Genesis! If you wanted to know about the sexing, I can help y—”

“You are…incorrect. Furthermore, it’s…none of your business,” Genesis hissed.

K’aekniv waggled a scolding finger at him as he crumpled up the form and jammed it back into his coat. “Don’t think we didn’t notice! All the men know now, and, anyway, little brother, he’s very upset with you. He’s waited years, Genesis. Years! No sex for years! I cannot let such a thing go on when I can fix it. It’s a holy mission, making you sex him. A man of God does not ignore the call of a brother in need.”

Genesis crossed his arms tightly, mostly to keep himself from lunging across the table and breaking the finger he was waving at him. “I believe…the situation does not concern your…imaginary…celestial mage in the slightest.”

K’aekniv gave him a pitying look. “I only want to help. Most men, when the time comes to learn of these things, they ask their father. Their brothers. But you, Genesis, you have no family. So it is the duty of us, your friends, to teach you.”

He certainly wished he could have asked Apollyon about it instead of having to wrestle with the topic on his own. The Destroyer, as far as he could tell, had successfully maintained a relationship with a full-blood angel for many hundreds of years without too much trouble. And Lucifer, on top of being an angel, was a total lunatic. Certainly Apollyon would have clear and helpful advice on the matter. A good book, a few charts, perhaps a small manual of some sort that one could keep in a pocket for easy reference. But Apollyon, to the best of his knowledge, was still off-realm somewhere, recovering from his last run-in with Emmanuel. 

Which left him with K’aekniv.

Though Genesis didn’t like to admit it to himself, if he had to have anyone other than Apollyon as a guide, K’aekniv would have to be the most sensible choice. Despite his lack of enthusiasm for other areas of study, his study of courtship rituals had left him with knowledge on the topic that was second to none. The half-angel didn’t seem capable of holding on to one companion for an extended period of time, but he invariably picked up new ones at a steady pace, a reality that never failed to bewilder Genesis.

Genesis eyed K’aekniv warily, returning none of his amusement. “How exactly do you…propose to be of assistance to me?”

“With this, Genesis, the best way to teach is by showing. So! Let us go to the Star and Rifle, and I’ll show you how a man wins a wo…ah, a man’s heart.” Heaving himself to his feet, K’aekniv stretched his wings and held out his hand to him with a worrying grin. Ignoring this display, Genesis rose, silently, and stalked off among the stacks toward the door. Behind him, he could hear K’aekniv trailing along in his wake, laughing to himself.

Hopefully, the excursion to his least-favorite place in the City of Glass wouldn’t end up being, ultimately, a waste of his time and patience. 

\- - -

“Now! This is no trouble for you, but it is good for you to learn anyway, I think. The first step is making the introduction.”

Genesis sighed, staring with distaste down at the sticky surface of the bar, shifting on the battered stool he found himself unwillingly perched upon. “I think I’ve…gone well past that stage.”

K’aekniv laughed into his glass—there was a new bartender on duty that evening, one who hadn’t yet been around long enough to know it was better to save himself some trouble and give K’aekniv whole bottles of liquor rather than portioning it out over ice. On a less rowdy night, even, he still went through three or four bottles. “Yes, yes, I know this. You are insane! Refusing to sex a man for days after he says yes to you…it’s cruel, Genesis. It is an insult to us who must fight every day for the sexing.”

Rolling his eyes, Genesis turned to cast an appraising look out over the crowd that’d gathered in the Star and Rifle that evening. It was a Thursday night and the bar was full, full like he’d only seen it before during the Festival of Shades and various other holidays, the faces uniformly merry and the smiles invariably tipsy. Genesis suspected that many of the men and women had gone directly from the battlefield to the bar, judging by both their degree of intoxication and the fact that some of them still had blood on their uniforms and mud caked to their boots.

“Who to choose, who to choose…hmph…this calls for another drink,” K’aekniv grumbled, ignoring the bartender’s puzzled stare as he leaned over the bar and fished around for a bottle underneath it. The Russian came back with a bottle of clear liquor, which he took a swig of without bothering to check to see what it was first. “Oh! Yes, right, the first thing, Genesis, is to buy the man a drink. It shows you are a working man with good money. You, bar boy! Make me one of those drinks, you know…the ones that come in colors and taste like womanly things.”

The bartender stared first at K’aekniv, then at him, as if he was expecting Genesis to give him some sort of guidance. Genesis only frowned, which sent the young man hurrying off toward the other end of the bar after giving K’aekniv a nod verging on a shallow bow. “I…prefer not to encourage Mirk’s…fondness for drink.”

K’aekniv waved him off, scoffing. “What? You would keep a man from drink _and_ expect him to listen to you? Too cruel!”

“In any case. I…have no need to assure him that I’m…capable of earning a living. Besides, he has no need for my money.”

Sighing, K’aekniv cuffed him in the shoulder, misjudging his force and nearly pushing Genesis off the barstool. Genesis couldn’t help but wonder exactly how many bottles K’aekniv had already gone through that day prior to the one he was currently working on. “It’s a gift! Men, they like gifts too, yes?”

When put that way, Genesis had to admit that he had a point. Mirk did like gifts, liked them with a bright sort of enthusiasm Genesis had never understood, treating each one like it was some kind of precious relic, using them or displaying them with the utmost care and attention. He’d always assumed it was some sort of traditional practice, some French custom he’d overlooked. “I…would not know what to…give him. In terms of drink or…otherwise.”

“What it is, this is not important,” K’aekniv said. “It’s that it comes from _you_.”

Before Genesis could question him further on the subject, the bartender returned, holding a tall, thin glass full of a reddish-pink mixture. K’aekniv took it from him with a grin, examining it. “Ah, a strong one! Yes! Maybe you will be a good bar boy after all, comrade.”

Genesis couldn’t help but edge away from K’aekniv—the smell of the drink was so strong that he could detect it even through the smoky reek of the bar, a pungent combination of cherry and alcohol that smelled like paint thinner. “Do you mean to…seduce the woman, or murder her?” Genesis asked, inwardly cringing as K’aekniv tasted the drink to verify its potency. There were good reasons why Genesis never accepted drinks he hadn’t poured himself and the threat of being poisoned wasn’t even first among them. 

“Bah! A good woman, she would be insulted by a weak drink. Rule two, Genesis. Do not insult the man you want to win.” Nodding to himself, K’aekniv got to his feet, only needing to scan the crowd for a moment to pick out a prospective companion. “Ah, yes! Her! Comrade…comrade…hmm, B, it begins with B…ah! Branna. Thirteenth. Her mother was that half-snake woman, you remember her? We found her in that lake.”

Genesis remembered her quite well; she’d dragged him into said lake and had nearly bitten his head off. Which, in retrospect, was far less upsetting than finding her in his bed one morning, still wrapped contentedly around K’aekniv and digesting the better half of what looked like a feral dog. She’d stuffed the remainder of it under his best pillow for later. “Yes…if I recall correctly, you also…courted her. For some time.”

“Branna? No, I’d remember her. Look at those legs!”

“The…mother.”

K’aekniv frowned. “I did? Ah, well. A long time ago! If you fail with the mother, you try again with the daughter.”

Genesis was still searching for a response as K’aekniv dismissed him and walked off, circling around to the entrance of the Star and Rifle rather than approaching the woman—a tallish sort, with disproportionately long legs and a mess of black ringlets—directly. Sighing, he settled in to watch the process via the mirror hung behind the bar, doing his best to ignore the way his own reflection was laughing at him. Despite the ceaseless noise inside the bar, he could still pick K’aekniv’s voice out of the din.

“Ah, Comrade Branna! You must have had a good time at the Lena, eh? Skin so healthy, eyes so bright…you must have killed thirty angels to look so beautiful! Here. Have a drink.” 

Much to Genesis’s shock, the line worked—with a hissing laugh, the woman took the drink from him, not attempting to edge away as K’aekniv edged closer. He failed to see what good that kind of talk would do him. Complimenting Mirk’s appearance would do little harm, he imagined, but mentioning how many people he’d killed in the last week didn’t seem wise. Perhaps it was the gestures rather than the words that he was meant to be observing. Genesis made a mental list of them—upright posture, head angled slightly downward and to one side, stance loose and open, positioned a rough half meter away from her, looking at her directly approximately eighty percent of the time. A curious combination, but Genesis assumed that it wasn’t supposed to make any sense. Earthly customs rarely did. 

“It was forty-five angels,” she replied, after taking a sip of the drink and finding it satisfactory.

“Ah, I am sorry, _devushka_. I did not mean to insult your strength. You are only stronger than I could even imagine.”

The woman gave another hiss of a laugh, turning slightly away from him and looking down. There was no hint of dismay on K’aekniv’s face at this, so Genesis could only assume that, contrary to logic, this gesture signified a positive response. “You’re funny,” she said, still not looking at him. 

“No! I’m serious! You, you must be the strongest in your division!”

Finally, she looked back at K’aekniv, giving him a slow, deliberate visual once-over. “That means something coming from you, Comrade Commander.”

At this point, K’aekniv put on his most winning grin—one that Genesis found unsightly due to the half-hearted job he did brushing his teeth most days, but that women (and the occasional man, when the mood struck him), for some unknowable reason, always liked. “Please! For you, it’s just K’aekniv.”

The woman stepped closer to him, downing half the drink as she nodded and looked him over once more. “All right. K’aekniv.”

“See? Much better! Now, tell me, what is a woman like you doing in here alone, eh? It’s not safe! For the men, of course. You’ll break all our hearts before the night is over.”

What happened next was even more confusing to Genesis—rather than scoffing and walking away from K’aekniv and his melodramatic flattery, she eased over beside him and took his arm, giving it a companionable squeeze. “I guess that means you’ll have to keep me company until my friends get here,” she said, throwing her head back and making short work of the rest of her drink. She presented the glass to K’aekniv, pouting. “Oh no…gone already…will you get me another? K’aekniv?”

She barely even had to ask. K’aekniv was already guiding her toward the bar, putting a hand over hers, reassuring. “Of course! For you, I’ll buy twenty.”

The woman gave another hissing laugh. As the pair approached, Genesis realized with growing revulsion that he could smell the woman as easily over the stench of the bar as easily as he had her drink. She reeked of carrion. Though K’aekniv tried to guide her to a pair of empty seats further on along the bar, she ignored the half-angel, taking the seat K’aekniv had vacated earlier instead. Fixing her yellowy-green eyes on Genesis in an unnervingly predatory fashion, she leaned over toward him. 

“Oh…Comrade. Hello. I don’t suppose you even know me…”

Genesis refused to reply, using the shadows gathered beneath the bar to drag his stool further away from her. If he ignored her, maybe she’d turn her grin back on K’aekniv, where it rightly belonged. K’aekniv didn’t mind if his lovers smelled like roadkill. 

Instead, his cool reception served only to encourage her. “Congratulations, by the way. I saw you tear apart that flight of Thrones. Such skill…”

Whether K’aekniv interrupted her out of pride or because he’d noticed his discomfort, Genesis didn’t know. The half-angel sidestepped nearer and pressed up close to her with an almost possessive air as he gestured crossly at the barkeeper to produce another drink. “Oh, yes. Genesis, he kills many things. This is why we keep him.” 

“It’s such an honor to meet you. Up close.” She punctuated this by sliding even closer, hauling K’aekniv along with in an impressive show of either strength or determination. 

Genesis was reluctant to speak. It’d mean letting the woman’s horrid smell in his mouth. But he was forced to say something when she tried to reach out and take his arm as well, her hand lashing out quick and without warning. He dodged, narrowly, that time openly moving his stool away from her. “Do not…touch me,” he said, careful not to inhale while doing so.

Rather than being repulsed, the woman laughed, treating him to a fanged grin. K’aekniv made another attempt at winning back her attention, snatching the second cherry/paint thinner drink from the bartender and dangling it beside her face. “Drink?”

She took it, giving a vague nod of thanks as she finally glanced back at the half-angel, expression hopeful. “Thank you so much for introducing us, K’aekniv. I’ve been an admirer of Comrade’s skill for a very long time…could keep a girl fed for months on the corpses…”

K’aekniv shook his head. “Genesis, he leaves no bodies. Yes?” 

It varied on the situation, but Genesis sensed that it wasn’t the proper time for a nuanced and thoughtful response. “No. They are…unsanitary. It is best to have them destroyed.”

“Little piles of black dust,” K’aekniv confirmed.

The woman wasn’t dissuaded, leaning closer again, licking her lips. “I’m sure if Comrade had someone to bring his presents to he wouldn’t.”  
“…no.”

She made a sad noise, reaching for him again. “Please?”

“No.”

“Are you just playing hard to get?”

“Leave me…alone.”

Laughing, she took a sip of her drink, in a fashion Genesis assumed was meant to be seductive. That or hungry. “Oh, you are…”

Releasing the woman’s arm, K’aekniv threw up his hands in frustration. “Men! He wants men! Not women!”

Her face fell. She made a deflated noise as her shoulders slumped in on themselves. “Really?” she asked K’aekniv.

“Yes! Now, if you’re looking for a man who wants you, _devushka_ , you should be looking this way.”

Smacking K’aekniv’s arm, laughing in a low, hissing tone, she turned away from the bar. “Silly Russian. Angels are for eating, not dating. Oh well. It was worth a try. And now Yvette is here, at least, hmm…maybe she brought that mage…tasty one, him…”

Cursing, K’aekniv made a warding gesture at the woman as she walked away, thunking sullenly back onto the barstool beside Genesis. It snapped, but didn’t give way—the Star and Rifle had long since realized it was more economical to buy reinforced seating than settling for the cheap stuff, considering the size of their clientele. “Women! Bah! Terrible!”

"Agreed," Genesis said, flatly, as he brooded over his patch of poorly-cleaned bar. It was times such as those that made him empathize with the people who turned to alcohol to take the edge off the world's unrelenting misery.

"Sometimes I think you're very lucky to not enjoy the women," K'aekniv said, as he slapped around behind the bar until he found another bottle. "Women, they are all the world's troubles."

" _You!_ " bellowed a high, fine voice from behind them, somewhere nearer the door, a voice that Genesis was dismayed to recognize.

He shot K'aekniv a skeptical look.

The angry voice drew closer. "I know you can hear me, damn you!"

"If...only things were...as simple as that," Genesis sighed.

It was Yule, and he was right—Genesis knew full well that the healer had to be shouting at him. His voice only took on that certain derisive, cutting edge when he was talking at him. Genesis couldn't blame him, not really. He'd tried to convince the heads of the 20th as a boy that he didn't need healing, especially not from the likes of Yule. Yet, despite all the times that Genesis's magic had thrown the man out windows or into walls, the head healers kept forcing him to try. It made Genesis wonder what exactly Yule had done to make them so cheerfully intent on having him killed. Even though it'd been centuries since Yule'd had sole responsibility for healing him, the man still held a grudge about it. 

Genesis continued to ignore both Yule’s yelling and K'aekniv's constant mumbled curses about the trials of courting the modern woman until the healer managed to stumble his way through the crowd to his side, shoving himself between him and K'aekniv so that he could inflict the full force of his glare on Genesis. "I'm talking to you!" he snapped.

"Yes. It would...appear you are." Genesis summoned the shadows again and pulled his stool away from Yule.

"What the hell are you doing in here, anyway?"

"I am teaching him how a real man wins the heart of a woman," K'aekniv said, giving Yule a pointed jab in the back with the bottom of his new bottle of liquor.

Yule cast an annoyed glance over his shoulder at the Russian. "Women? I know you're an imbecile, but even you can't be that stupid."

K'aekniv shrugged. "What? A man, he needs to learn these things. True, he does not sex the women, but it’s mostly the same, yes?"

Rolling his eyes, Yule turned back to Genesis. "You're a horrible bastard."

Though he was still annoyed, Genesis supposed the healer had a point, if his statement was interpreted literally. "...and so?" 

"Do you not even notice how depressed you're making him?"

"I fail to...understand how that involves you."

Genesis caught Yule's wrist just in time to keep his fist from connecting with the side of his face. "Goddamn it!" he cursed, struggling against Genesis's hold. "What the hell does he see in you, anyway? You're an ass! An insensitive, self-centered asshole!"

"Ah, comrade, the yelling, it does nothing to him," K'aekniv sighed. While Yule had been preoccupied criticizing Genesis, the half-angel had snagged a glass from behind the bar and had poured him a drink from his bottle. He held it out to Yule, and the healer, with a final, disgusted shake of his arm, gave up on hitting Genesis in favor of downing the offered drink. "If you want him to see reason, you have to work on his level."

Yule threw the drink back with a flick of his wrist, immediately holding the glass out for more. "I suppose you might have a point," he grumbled. 

K'aekniv poured him another drink, that time filling the glass to the rim. "Now, tell me. Little brother, he is upset?"

"A complete mess," Yule sighed. "He’s doing a halfway decent job of hiding it. The double shifts are a dead giveaway, though. He only ever takes doubles if he can't sleep."

Genesis tried to beat back the wave of guilt that rose up in him, focusing instead on the names and runes carved into the surface of the bar. There were a copious amount of initials, hearts. He sighed. "I am...not unaware of this."

"Then why don't you do something? It's not that hard," Yule said, eyeing him crossly over the edge of his glass.

But it was difficult, harder than anything had a right to be, logically speaking. Every time he crossed paths with Mirk, he convinced himself that it'd be the time, finally, he would summon the will to say something to him about it all, something reassuring, something that reaffirmed his intentions in a way that was neither too blunt nor too obscure. Yet he could never say anything. His mind spun with options, with approaches and potential consequences, checks and double-checks clamoring to be considered, and instead of saying anything he stood silent, contributing nothing but nods and the occasional yes or no to the conversation. Until Mirk, with a worryingly cheerful wave, hurried off about his business, leaving Genesis cursing himself and swearing that next time, next time he'd have prepared the appropriate response in advance.

He'd considered it from every angle, worked at the problem with all his wits and resources. Still, he was as lost as he was when he’d started out. There wasn't even a sensible course of action as far as he could tell, a formula he could grab hold of and cling to in an effort to keep himself from drowning in the complexities of the tiny gestures and tones and expressions that meant so much to Mirk and so very little to him. There was only chaos. And not the kind of chaos that made him feel better about things, either.

"This is what I've told him a dozen times already," K'aekniv said, taking a long drink from the bottle—already, it was nearly emptied. "So, since telling him does nothing, I brought him here to show him."

"Did it work?" Yule asked.

"No! This woman, she tries to get him instead of me! Women! They make no sense," K'aekniv sighed.

Yule cast an appraising look back in Genesis's direction. "For once, I'll agree with you. Anyone with half a brain would choose anyone before him. Even if it's you."

K'aekniv paused mid-drink, smacking Yule on the shoulder. "Was that you being nice to me? Holy Mother, you must be drunk already!"

"Not drunk enough," Yule grumbled, leaning heavily against the bar. "Make yourself useful and get me a bottle. Giving me glasses...who the hell do you think I am?"

K'aekniv fumbled around behind the bar and, not finding anything large enough, stretched himself out to his full reach and snatched a bottle from the shelf of higher-end liquors on the back wall of the bar. He passed it to Yule, who gave its label a disapproving once-over but uncapped it and set to drinking it regardless. "What do we do with him, huh? We can't leave it like this. Little brother, he has earned better."

Yule nodded, expression going worryingly pensive. "If it keeps Mirk from going off and leaving us short-handed, I'll show the bastard how it’s done."

Though Genesis resented being spoken about like he wasn't there, he had to admit that, at that point, any small scrap of assistance might be worthwhile. Still, his desperation wasn't enough to make Genesis encourage Yule, dismissing both of him and K’aekniv with a wave of his hand. "If you are...inclined to waste your time in this fashion, so be it."

The two other men ignored him, lost in their drinks and their scheming. "What," K'aekniv asked, "you think you have something to show him that I don’t?"

"Of course," Yule snorted. "Your terrible lines are only good for getting whores. Female ones, by the way. Which aren’t what we're dealing with here."

Again, K'aekniv jabbed the healer with his bottle. "Liar! What do you know about women? Huh? Just because you look like one, that—"

"I do _not_ ," Yule snapped, going one step further than the half-angel and punching him hard in the arm. "Anyway, that's not the point. The point is you know nothing about men."

"I _am_ a man!"

"Big deal. Doesn't mean you know anything about courting one. I, on the other hand, know every trick there is. Experience, you know."

"Prove it," K'aekniv leered, punching Yule in return, hard enough to earn himself a smack on the head.

"Gladly," Yule said. He shoved his half-empty bottle at K'aekniv. "Hold this. And if you drink it, I'll kill you."

Yule paused before turning away from the bar, giving himself a critical examination in the mirror behind it, running his hands back through his long auburn hair and flashing himself his best smile (which, though it was about as alluring as K'aekniv's, was at least clean). He spun on the ball of one foot and stalked off, making for the corner of the bar where the non-Russian infantry tended to congregate.

"Bah, men," K'aekniv sighed, watching Yule make his initial survey of the crowd. "Why would I tell you how to sex them? A normal man, he would not need telling. He would have already sexed you, one way or another. Winning the heart of a man of principle, this is closer to winning a woman. Harder, maybe. They want the body and then they want the heart even more, not one or the other."

Genesis sighed, crossing his arms again and returning to watching in the mirror as events unfolded back among the crowd. He had no idea what K'aekniv was talking about—it could have been more of his drunken nonsense, or it could have been true, for all he knew. It seemed only sensible to him that one would be interested in a companion's mind and motives. How was one to enjoy time spent with an idiot? Or, even worse, an idiot with no convictions? There were certain elements of physicality it was prudent to consider—a tolerable level of personal cleanliness foremost among them—but even the cleanest idiot was still, fundamentally, an idiot.

"What? Him! He chooses _him_? What's his name...Eh...Er...Ardal! Yes. Terrible," K'aekniv concluded, with a pitying shake of his head. The man in question, who Yule had sidled up to and nudged pointedly in the ribs, was a tall, heavily muscled infantryman with poorly cut dark hair and the sort of cocky smile that Genesis found particularly grating.

"Agreed."

"The body of a little girl," K’aekniv scoffed. 

"Hmph."

K'aekniv continued to explain at him, taking on the superior, pontificating air that he favored when talking about something he felt strongly about. "You see, the muscles, they are all at the top. A middle like a noblewoman! A man gets like this by lifting many small things instead of doing work like a real man. You want to see a real man’s body, you look at mine! Not at some girl who looks in a mirror and picks up metal pieces instead of fighting! Even you, Genesis, are better than this. You're bony, true, but you are honest. A man knows what he's getting into."

Though K'aekniv's annoyed mumbling didn't cease, Genesis refocused his attention on Yule and the infantryman, able to hear the both of them after a few moments of concentration. The general approach struck him as being similar, though somewhat less roundabout—instead of starting off with beseeching compliments, Yule was more to the point, his posture and gaze both direct. "Well, well. If it isn't Ardal Conry. In the flesh. Here alone tonight?"

Likewise, the infantryman's response was less coy, returning Yule's appraising stare with one of his own, not attempting to conceal his interest by looking away. "Unfortunately, yes. You?"

"The same."

He shot Yule one another of his obnoxiously winning smiles, jerking his head in the direction of the bar. "Care to change that?"

"Gladly."

Rather than waiting to be led away or leading the other man to the bar himself, Yule merely cast a coolly intrigued glance back at him before crossing to the bar on his own. Though Yule attempted to claim a pair of stools at the far end of the bar, the infantryman was faster than he was, stalking over to the empty stool on the far side of K'aekniv and planting himself on it, making a show of yawning and stretching his thick arms back behind his head. Genesis couldn't tell who was more annoyed by this development: Yule, who scowled at his back for a moment before shoving himself into the negligible bit of empty bar between K'aekniv and the other man, or K'aekniv himself, who puffed his wings up a bit in indignation and continued to mutter into his bottle about biceps and abdominals.

Yule gave the bartender a pointed frown. In an instant, he had produced a glass and ice, which he edged across the table at the infantryman with a wincing smile. "Same as him, comrade?" he asked jerking his head in Yule's direction.

The infantryman shrugged, leaning forward and casting a sideways glance at K'aekniv from around Yule. "What's Comrade Commander having?"

"Er..."

"Who knows?" K'aekniv replied, saving the bartender from having to come close enough to see the label on the now-empty bottle that the half-angel unceremoniously let drop to the floor beneath the bar to join the rest of that evening's collection. He rose up off his stool for an instant, just long enough to snatch a new bottle from the shelves behind the bartender. "What is this...eh? You expect us to drink this Dutch shit? Comrade. If I wanted to drink shit, I would stay at home with the _samogon_. In the bar, a man expects better." Despite his complaining, K'aekniv uncapped the bottle and settled back down with it.

The young bartender looked as if he didn't know what to make of this, looking back and forth between K'aekniv and Yule with mounting terror. Which was an impressive response, in Genesis's opinion. Most of the bartenders assumed the healer was harmless until they found themselves short a finger or four. "Ah...I may have another bottle in the cellar, if I can't get you anything else..."

The infantryman shrugged, leaning forward again and reaching around Yule with his glass held out. "How about sharing?"

Before K'aekniv could so much as raise the bottle, Yule swooped in, snatching his bottle from the Russian’s other hand and dumping a measure into the infantryman’s outstretched glass. "You don't want to share with him. Unless you really want to have the same diseases every whore in camp does."

"Bastard," K'aekniv grumbled, half-heartedly, distracted by the infantryman's attempt at downing the whole of what Yule had poured out for him at once. Which the man accomplished, but not without a fit of coughing and choking.

Genesis was quickly losing what little patience he had left. Whatever instructional quality the encounter was supposed to posses seemed to have been lost in the two men's personal romantic woes, which he wanted nothing to do with. Not voluntarily, in any case. "I fail to see how...any of this is useful to anyone," he said, without paying any particular mind to whether the infantryman heard him or not.

"For once, you have reason, Genesis," K'aekniv shrugged. "You don't sex the women," he added, with a pointed look in the still-recovering infantryman's direction.

The look wasn't lost on Yule, who huffed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up. Taking a bath more than once a month doesn't make someone a woman."

"Hah! As if the smell is all that makes a man!"

"Christ, you're _disgusting_ —"

"You couldn't be more right, Comrade Commander," the infantryman cut in, having recovered from his attempt at drinking in the ceremonial Russian fashion. "There's bravery...honor...the right build..."

"Are you trying to make a point, or something?" Yule snapped.

The infantryman shrugged, flashing another of his winning grins. "All I'm saying is that if you're going to go after men, going with one who looks like a girl is sort of counterproductive, don't you think?" 

Yule’s expression darkened, as he deliberately set aside his bottle. “You didn’t answer my question.”

The infantryman’s grin, if anything, only grew as he leaned closer to Yule. “Just out of curiosity…is your friend still single?” he asked in a low, but not exactly private tone, jerking his chin in K’aekniv’s direction. 

Yule didn’t reply, though Genesis could tell even from a distance that the healer had gone tense. Not that he needed to speak at all to get his point across—K’aekniv more than accomplished the task for him, his response sudden and exaggerated, the half-angel groaning and slumping miserably over the bar. “Listen to this bitch! Are you crazy? A man, he must have his standards! Fucking someone who only half-asses being a _real_ man? Who do you think I am? Some kind of _whore_?” Finding English grammatical structure to be too constricting, his complaining shifted into a half-angry, half-woeful fit of Russian cursing.

The infantryman didn’t realize his mistake until it was too late. He’d dismissed Yule entirely, instead focusing his growing and confused ire on K’aekniv. Before he could spit out a rebuttal, the healer had drawn back just far enough to deliver a precision kick to the man’s ribs, knocking him off his stool. 

“ _Bastard!_ ”

Though the man tried to ward him off, Yule was having none of it, continuing to kick at him, aiming for weak elbows and wrists to keep him from getting up off the floor. “Using me to get at _this_ deadbeat! Using _me_? Get the fuck out of here before I use your teeth for fucking cocktail garnishes! Christ…” He only allowed the infantryman to wobble off on hands and knees once the beating had strained the limits of his empathy, shaking his head and snatching up his drink. 

K’aekniv gave Yule a sour look as the healer jimmied his bottle out of his fist and downed it as well for good measure. “He says he knows everything about men. Hah!”

“Shut up.”

“Though…a man stupid enough not to have any muscles in his middle deserves to be beat.”

“Exactly.”

Shaking his head, Genesis slid off his barstool. “This is…useless.”

Both of the other men turned to face him at this, expressions surprised, as if they’d both forgotten he was there. Immediately, Genesis regretted having said anything to attract their attention. Yule sighed, exasperated, circling around K’aekniv’s bulk and taking Genesis’s abandoned seat. “You’re right. This is stupid. Just go get it over with, for Christ’s sake. Save us all a headache.”

K’aekniv nodded. “What you don’t understand…these things can’t be taught.”

“They don’t _need_ to be taught. Look,” Yule sighed, though his expression brightened a little as the bartender deposited a fresh bottle in front of him—a drink of appreciation from some contingent who’d witnessed the beating he’d delivered, apparently. “Even you can’t be this dense. Stop making excuses. Either do something or don’t, I don’t care which. Just _decide_ already.”

Genesis frowned. He had half a mind to walk away—only sheer bewilderment kept him from disappearing into the gloom of the Star and Rifle. “I…disfavor indecisiveness.”

Yule snorted. “Right.”

Though Genesis thought the point to be too evident to merit explaining, he made an attempt anyway. “A process that…appears to be so crucial must have a proper method of being done. It would seem…imprudent for the case to be otherwise. It is only reasonable to determine the correct path before setting out. As it were.”

K’aekniv sighed, shaking his head at him. “Genesis, why worry so much? What could happen? If a man has put up with you being a miserable, people-stupid bastard for this long, he’ll keep putting up with it. But a man, I think, can only put up with being ignored for so long.” 

“He’s right, you know,” Yule said after a moment, when Genesis didn’t reply to K’aekniv’s advice. “Doing something’s better than doing nothing, even if what you ultimately decide to do is ass-backwards.”

“Is it? Truly?”

Both men gave a firm nod, in unison. It made Genesis feel particularly uneasy, as if he was being coaxed to accept a hand up that would be pulled back at the last possible moment. Still he would take it—aside it from being the closest thing to a proper explanation of how to proceed that he’d been offered thus far, the constant noise of the bar and the hot press of bodies not yet touching him, but still far too close for comfort, was fast becoming unbearable. He allowed himself to begin to slip back into the Abyss through the shadows. Neither K’aekniv nor Yule made any attempt to stop him, both too lost in drink and their own troubles to care whether he stayed or went.

“I shall…take this into consideration,” he made himself reply, just before he allowed the shadows to overtake him, swallowing him into a comforting, absolute darkness. It wasn’t entirely a lie—he knew that something had to be done, though he sincerely doubted that doing whatever he felt like would be the best choice. He’d have to make an attempt that evening. Before uncertainty over whelmed him again and he no longer had the impetus of annoyance to curry him onwards.

Hopefully, for once, K’aekniv would be right about something.


	2. The Perplexities of Human Courtship Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dating is hard for everyone. It's worse when it's your first. And when you haven't been on a proper one in...forever.
> 
> Is your body ready for shameless, tooth-rotting fluff? Because that's pretty much all this is (aside from the requisite bit of morbidity from Genesis, but, according to Mirk, that's part of the charm). If so, I hope you enjoy! I know I did. ^__^

Mirk stood in the hall outside Genesis’s office, staring down at the collection of major incident reports clutched in his hands and wondering what exactly it was that he thought he was doing.

He shouldn’t have felt so out of sorts. He should have been _happy_. He’d finally escaped the limbo he’d been stuck in for what felt like forever: close to him, but too far to bear, on the edge, but too terrified to jump. If he was honest with himself, truly rational and objective, he knew that the kiss had been an invitation. An acceptance. Anyone else could have meant nothing by giving away a kiss like that, a peck on the lips that barely lasted a second, but, with Genesis, it was akin to a declaration of undying love and devotion given on bended knee—the commander would rather submit to just about any other indignity than be forced to do something as personal as touch another person’s mouth. To the best of Mirk’s knowledge, Genesis hadn’t even slunk off to go brush his teeth for an hour or two afterwards. That meant he _really_ had to be serious about things.

And yet…

…and yet, it had happened almost three days ago, and Genesis still hadn’t said another thing about it. Mirk wondered if there was something he was supposed to be doing, if there was some sort of reciprocal sign that he was to have given but hadn’t made yet. He’d considered bringing up the topic during one of the many times they’d been alone together since then, considered taking his hand or scooting over close beside him and nudging him in the arm until the commander got the hint and put it around his shoulders, but nothing seemed quite _right_. 

Maybe it was the years of anticipation stopping him. He’d imagined what it would be like to be with him for decades, running through every possible scenario in his head, from the most innocent and slow courtship to a quick, eager shift directly from confession to bedroom. But none of them had been anything like what he was enduring now. Genesis’s flat-out refusal to acknowledge anything had happened or changed was characteristic, he supposed, but was still disheartening.

It couldn’t have been a mistake. It _couldn’t_. 

Shaking his head, Mirk mentally scolded himself for being so silly. Why should he be waffling around outside Genesis’s door like a boy pacing back and forth in his first marriage prospect’s parlor, waiting nervously for them to descend from their living quarters above in a rush of windswept finery? The mental image was ridiculous enough to spur him onward, make him knock on the door as he laughed under his breath. He could remember Genesis’s reaction to Regency fashions. The commander had been forced into tails once, and had been so appalled by the garment that he’d ripped it off at the first possible opportunity and thrown it into a fireplace. 

There was no response from the other side of the door, but it came unlatched, creaking open a few inches. Mirk nudged the door the rest of the way open, sighing. Some things would never change, he supposed.

“Genesis?” he called out, as he slipped inside. “I have this week’s reports.”

There was no response. It was also, unsurprisingly, pitch black inside the office. Not without a bit of exasperation, Mirk smacked at the wall beside the door until he triggered the magelights. Genesis was still entrenched behind his desk, despite it being eleven at night, so consumed by his paperwork that he hadn’t even bothered to turn on the lights once darkness fell. “It’s not good for you to work in the dark like this, _messire_. It can’t be good for your eyes.”

“I can…see perfectly fine without them,” Genesis replied, still not looking up. He appeared to be at the bottom of a form, going through the laborious process of applying his signature to it. Mirk found the determination draining from him as he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot in front of the desk, reports soon clutched to his chest rather than held defiantly forward. Was he _really_ that disinterested? Or had he just gone off again? It was impossible to tell. It was _hell_.

Finally, the commander looked up, face as blank as it ever was. He stared at him, unblinking. Mirk supposed that meant he was supposed to say something. “Um…methinks they should all be in order, _messire_. But if they’re not, just tell me and I’ll fix them…”

Genesis made a vague gesture at his inbox, nodding. “I believe…they will most likely be adequate.”

Mirk approached the desk with some trepidation, dropping the reports in his inbox quickly. There was a whole pile of other forms in it. Was that what it all was? Was he just busy? Mirk hadn’t remembered to factor into his calculations the fact that Genesis actually ran the army, personally invested in all of it, incapable of delegating the way he did to keep his hours reasonable and ensure all his healers still felt like they were contributing something positive to the division, no matter what shape they were in. Fighting to keep the unconcerned smile on his face, Mirk clasped his hands behind his back and retreated from the desk, eyes lowered. He probably wouldn’t notice he was upset. It made the sinking feeling in his stomach worse, despite how he tried to convince himself that it was better that Genesis didn’t sort it out. Mirk had waited that long. What was a few more days?

…or weeks…or months… 

Mirk was startled out of his private misery by the sound of the commander’s voice. “It is…rather late.”

He nodded, glancing up at him momentarily. The blank expression had disappeared while Mirk had been distracted, replaced by something between a frown and a grimace. Which could mean anything, coming from him. Even his attempts at smiling had a resentful air to them. “I suppose it is.”

“I believe…it would be rather…prudent to seek out…a restaurant. Perhaps.”

This time, Mirk looked up for good, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He thought he might have an idea at what Genesis was getting at, but he’d been disappointed enough times to know it was best to be cautious. “Methinks that might be a good idea…”

The frown had solidified, deepened, grown more frustrated. That confirmed it. Genesis really was going to broach the subject of what had happened. Not directly, undoubtedly, but Mirk knew better than to expect miracles out of him. When Genesis forced himself to deviate from routine, he did it in inches, not miles. “I am not…accustomed to…this…manner of diversion. You may know of…a venue…more appropriate than…what I would select. If…you…would care to…at all. That is.”

Mirk knew his grin had to look ridiculous, but he was too relieved to care. It was also the only way he could keep himself from laughing. It never ceased to amaze him—the man had just led thousands of K’maneda to victory, fearlessly plunging into whole flights of Thrones and reducing them all to nothing but lifeless wings and dust, and now there Genesis was, only three days later, having to nearly kill himself to summon the nerve to ask _him_ out on a _date_. “ _Bien sûr_ , I know a place. You’ll like it.”

Judging from the look on his face, Mirk knew he wouldn’t, but he had a feeling that fine dining wasn’t exactly the point of the whole exercise. “Well. Shall…we?”

Mirk nodded. “Yes. Let’s.”

He watched as Genesis meticulously gathered his things—briefcase, coat, hat, illogically, the sunglasses—savoring the feeling of the weight that’d been lying on his chest floating away. Mirk was on solid ground, now. He knew how it’d go. Once Genesis got past whatever point he’d been hung up on, the coldness, the distance, the distaste, all of it vanished. He’d go back to being himself: the same incredibly brilliant, tirelessly devoted, impossibly strange, hopelessly endearing Genesis he’d fallen in love with. Really, he was lucky that Genesis was so intractable. It’d been centuries, yet the man was still nearly the exact same person he’d first met in a disreputable inn on the bad side of Nantes all those years ago.

Well. Almost the same, Mirk thought, as he followed him out of the office. The love part was new, but Mirk liked to think it’d been waiting there for him all along.

Though he knew he was getting embarrassingly sentimental, Mirk couldn’t help but try to commit every part of it exactly to memory. Turning away from the door, Genesis paused beside him and rigidly held out his arm. Mirk took it, too giddy to care that Genesis was a foot too tall for the whole arm-in-arm business to work. Linking elbows be damned; he’d just take hold of it instead. So what if either Genesis had to walk at a crawl or he had to sprint to match paces? They’d sort it out. Everything between them always took a bit of adjustment. 

That was part of the appeal. 

That made it their own.

\- - -

Genesis stared at the poorly laundered tablecloth, trying to tune out the various clanks and clacks and chompings of the restaurant’s other customers by using minute traces of his destructive aura to scrape away some of the stains on it. It wasn’t working.

“Er, are you all right? _Messire_?”

He knew the dining room couldn’t be that loud—after all, it was after midnight. He was trying to avoid it again, manage uncertainty and doubt by sinking into the reassuring familiarity of being annoyed at poor table manners. Genesis forced himself to look up. Mirk was eyeing him with concern, having cast aside his menu in favor of worrying at his linen napkin. Sighing, he tried to come up with a response that would be both diplomatic and not entirely untruthful. “It’s of no concern. Merely…residual fatigue. I believe. Immaterial.”

It hadn’t been the correct response. Mirk’s concern only grew. “Oh…you should have said something, Genesis…methinks it isn’t very nice to force someone who’s not feeling well to go out…”

Much to his displeasure, he could still hear K’aekniv pontificating at him in the back of his head. _Comrade, why worry? What could happen? If a man has put up with you being a miserable, people-stupid bastard for this long, he’ll keep putting up with it._ Even more annoying, Genesis supposed, was the fact that the half-angel had a point. Being deliberately abrasive, even, seemed to have little effect on Mirk’s will to stay with him. In fact, as far as he knew, attempting to obey the rules of non-K’maneda society at large had been making Mirk _more_ miserable instead. Trying to put correctness out of mind, pushing aside his concern over whether what he’d say would have the wrong intonation or connotation, he made himself spit out the first response that came to mind. “If this is a show of force, it is an…unimpressive one.”

Mirk laughed, shaking his head. “Well…that’s true, yes. I just know how much you don’t like this kind of thing.”

“One must weigh their options. Tolerating this is…somewhat preferable to spending the morning cleaning the kitchen.”

Again, Mirk laughed—Genesis was beginning to feel some of his annoyance at the other diners fade, illogically. “You’ll still do that anyway. Tomorrow’s Saturday. You always clean the kitchen on Saturdays.”

He was right. Genesis sighed, rubbing at one of the stains on the tablecloth in irritation. “That’s not the point.”

For some unfathomable reason, his crossness appeared to have put Mirk at ease. The healer picked up the wine list, flicking through it with the sort of intense scrutiny that only long-time drunks and Frenchmen could manage. Unfortunately for the sommelier (if the hideous establishment even had one), Mirk was both. “It’s all right, really. I didn’t expect you to eat anyway.” Mirk paused, looking up from the list and treating him to a smile that made something in his chest seize up. “It’s the company that matters.”

Genesis coughed, smacking at his breastbone as surreptitiously as possible. He hated it when his body decided to go off on its own instead of listening to him. It was unnerving. “I…see.”

Mirk set the wine list aside, returning to the menu, tapping his pursed lips with one finger and humming thoughtfully to himself as he glanced through it. “You still should eat something, though, Genesis. You could try some steak, _non_? I’m friends with the chef, I’ll tell her to leave it mostly raw.”

He didn’t feel much like eating—his stomach felt more off than usual, strained, like it was trying to claw its way out through his abdominals—but he thought it best to let Mirk have his way. If Yule was to be believed, he’d already put him through a whole month’s worth of trouble over the past three days alone. Genesis waved a dismissive hand at him. Mirk’s face lit up with another expression of delight. It made him feel like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

The banalities of sit-down dining went on around him; Genesis ignored it. Bread came, then wine. He ignored that as well. Mirk didn’t complain, happily keeping the lot of it to himself. He always seemed to turn into a bottomless pit that time of year, the weight easing onto his frame as the weeks passed, shifting the lean, glowing health of June into the warm, creamy softness of October, both equally agreeable in their own way. It was one of those small blessings that came along with an Earth mage—instead of only one form, they offered four to choose from, each well-suited to its own season. Radiant in summer, sleepy and close in winter. Yielding and tender in autumn, demanding and overflowing with life come spring.

Genesis was well aware of the fact that he was getting rather vague. He resented it, but didn’t have the slightest idea what he was supposed to do about it.

“—don’t you think? Genesis?”

Shaking his head, hard, he forced himself back to the present. “…what?”

“Oh, I’m sorry…you really aren’t too tired for all of this, are you?”

Genesis didn’t respond, distracted by the arrival of dinner. He couldn’t help but recoil a bit from the sight of what was on the plate set before him. The steak was still properly bleeding…into a potato. It gave off a smell like burnt earth mixed with cabbage. Though Mirk cheerfully thanked the waiter, he immediately went concerned again once the man walked off. “Is it all right?” he asked, leaning toward him a bit, peering down at the plate. “It’s not too cooked, is it?”

“…not…exactly…”

When he refused to offer up further critique, Mirk sighed and settled back in his chair, picking at his meal—some sort of pasta-cheese-cream-vegetable amalgam—with a notable lack of enthusiasm. Genesis tried to think of something to say, unable to keep from watching the potato continue to absorb the rest of his dinner. Was he supposed to be critical? Say what he thought? Scowl at the monstrosity and push it aide? Or was he to pretend to tolerate it? Or, perhaps he was meant to ignore the plate altogether and carry on with some other conversation, though he’d completely lost track of where the discussion had veered off to before dinner’s arrival. Steeling himself, he looked back up at Mirk and waited for something to happen. 

But nothing did. The instant he looked up, the healer looked down again, and he stared steadfastly down at his casserole in silence. A silence that Genesis had no idea how to break. In an instant, all the certainty he’d reclaimed evaporated, leaving his mind utterly blank. 

“Ah…”

Mirk glanced up at him, just for a moment. Expectant. When he said nothing further, Mirk went back to prodding at his dinner. But Genesis continued to stare at him, or, to be more accurate about it, at the room beyond his hunched-over shoulders, at the figure that had just stood up from a few tables away. Though most of his mind was still consumed with trying to work out the proper thing to say—an apology? Some sort of anecdote? He didn’t know any that were very pleasant—a small, cold part of him was rifling through his mental inventory of prospective marks. His killing half came up with a solution before the rational half did, connecting the peculiar trefoil neck tattoo and distinctive, greenish-black queue on the man who was now crossing the dining room to a rank and a number—House Clover assassin, fourth rank, 100,000 American dollars. Offered by the Coalition’s badly-disguised shadow administration, no less. Had cut the head off a diplomat and left it hung on a lamppost, if he recalled the details correctly. Doubtlessly the organization would have little in the way of liquid assets at the moment, but he’d settle for 50,000 and a favor as compensation.

Or for twenty. Or just the favor. Or for free; he didn’t care. Anything to get away from that accursed dinner. Just for a few minutes. Just to reorient himself to the task at hand.

“…a moment. If you would.”

Genesis just barely registered Mirk’s puzzled nod before his mind was completely removed from the table, senses already sharpening as he got to his feet and considered the best way to get rid of the man without making a mess of his new uniform.

It wouldn’t do to have that bothering him for the rest of the evening on top of everything else.

\- - -

“Are you feeling all right, Genesis?”

Genesis considered the question as he returned to his seat, frowning at the contortions required to fit his legs fully under the table. “Yes. There is…no cause for concern.”

Not in the slightest. The largest potential threat in the restaurant had been neutralized, throat slit ear to ear after only a minor tussle, his horrid oily green braid triple-wrapped in handkerchiefs and tucked away in a deep pocket to be mailed to the proper authorities in the morning. Now the only thing left in the restaurant that he felt any resentment toward at all was the damn potato, which, by that point, had fully absorbed most of the steak’s excess juice. Genesis made it vanish with a twitch of one finger, the shadows curling out from under his plate and pulling the monstrosity off into the Abyss where horrors like it properly belonged, and set to examining his flatware. 

Mirk made a further questioning noise. Genesis looked up and found that the healer was eying him in that certain half-amused, half-exasperated way that he only recognized because it usually preceded his being called “silly” or “strange.” He sighed, clearing his throat. “You think…something is amiss?”

The smile turned to a laugh as Mirk began working at his dinner again, properly that time, with his usual enthusiasm. “Oh, not at all. I see I was wrong.”

“…what?”

“Never mind. You’re going to eat after all?” he asked, gesturing with his free hand at the steak that Genesis had begun to cut into small, perfectly even cubes.

“I…may manage some of it, yes.”

“Good.” Mirk eyed him thoughtfully over an appalling forkful of the…whatever it was that he was eating, nodding to himself as everything, apparently, passed inspection. “As long as you’re feeling more yourself, I suppose.”

If he looked at it objectively, he did feel more himself then, less frustrated and tangled up in the intricacies of what shapes he should have been contorting his face into and what manner of pleasant small talk he was supposed to be marking. It could have been the reassurance that Mirk most likely knew full well what he’d slunk off to do, but had still been waiting for him nevertheless when he’d finished. Or it was just the refreshing clear-headedness that came with accomplishing a fine bit of knife-work. Genesis favored the second explanation. “I fail to see the…connection.”

“Hmm. Methinks it just might have to stay a mystery, then, _messire_.”

“…right.”

There was a beat of silence. Genesis stabbed one of the cubes of steak and examined it, critically. It wasn’t half bad, now that he looked at it more closely. It was actually red in the middle. Mirk must have been telling the truth about having an in with the chef.

“Genesis?”

He refocused on Mirk. He was suddenly giving him a strange look, one that he couldn’t place. But there was emotion in it, that he could tell. Something strong. Adamant. “…yes?”

“You…do know that I like you the way you are, don’t you?”

He frowned, slightly. “What?”

Mirk leaned across the table, taking hold of the back of the hand he was holding his knife in. Hesitantly, Genesis put it down. “You don’t have to do anything different. I don’t want you to change. I just…I would rather just have you be…you. _Vous voyez?_ ”

Genesis stared down at Mirk’s hand. It was warm, its grip insistent. Despite how cold his was. Despite how disjointed they looked when put together, the healthy, rich undertones in Mirk’s skin only emphasizing the dead, bone white of his own. Slowly, he turned his hand over, intertwining their fingers. 

“I believe…I do.”

\- - -

The hall stretched out before them at the top of the fifth floor landing, cold and ghostly in the half-light of the perpetual full moon that the House seemed fond of conjuring outside its tall, arched windows. It was some distance from the stairs to Mirk’s room. However, Genesis doubted he could puzzle out the proper way to conclude such an evening even if he’d had a full hour to devote to the problem. It was a waste of time to even think of it. Contrary to all his training and experience, apparently it was better to act on impulse rather than on reason.

Still, he couldn’t keep himself from trying to plan for it, only half-listening to what Mirk was saying, something about his childhood, something about the other healers, something he’d lost the subject of around the time that they’d returned to the House. It’d all gone smoothly once more, from dessert up until then, the conversation more or less steady until it suddenly became obvious that they’d have to part and Genesis hadn’t the slightest idea how the routine was supposed to go. Mirk started to ramble when he got emotional; what he said wasn’t nearly as important as simply continuing to speak. Which didn’t help reassure him that what he chose to do when they parted way was ultimately inconsequential. What was he supposed to do? True, Mirk had insisted that he do whatever he felt like, but it didn’t put an end to the questions, not then, not when he had the sense that there was a definite right and wrong way to handle things. What was he meant to do? What was the proper combination of gestures, the proper physical distance, the best way to proceed not in a leap but in inches, reassuring but not overwhelming, not distant, yet not suffocating, not too forward but not—

“Anyway…er, it ended well for everyone. So.” 

Genesis had entirely missed walking down the length of the hall, lost in his various calculations and precautionary measures until Mirk came to a stop outside his door, hands clasped behind his back, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot and looking down and away from him. “I…see,” Genesis said, feeling it best to at least spit out something, even if it wasn’t exactly relevant.

“Yes…”

Silence. Which was inconsequential to him, save for the fact that Genesis had the impression that it wasn’t quite the called for response. It was frustrating. So frustrating that, against his better judgment, relying on some instinctual part of him that he didn’t trust in the slightest, he elected to gingerly reach over and place a hand on his shoulder instead of finding something to say. Mirk looked up. Genesis couldn’t tell whether he was startled or surprised, alarmed or eager—the expressions all looked the same to him. What wasn’t the same, however, was the way that the hall’s perpetual moonlight traced his features, turning softness into stark brights and shadows, half obscured and half laid bare. 

It was very much like how his first attempt had went, fast and reflexive rather than deliberate and slow. A rigid peck on the cheek, and nothing more. When he drew back, he was relieved to be able to sort out Mirk’s reaction without much trouble—happiness. A genuine smile. The kind that he could never quite manage to replicate. The smile turned to a laugh as Mirk leaned over and took his other hand.

“You don’t have to be so formal, you know.”

Genesis frowned. “I was…unaware that there was any formality in…such a familiar gesture.”

Mirk gave a firm nod. “That was formal. This…” And he paused, paused and drew closer to him, pulled himself up to his full height and pulled down on Genesis’s arm until he was bent over far enough for him to be able to return the kiss firmly on the lips. “…is better.”

Genesis didn’t know what to make of this. “So…it is.”

Mirk was grinning now, and Genesis had a feeling the situation was quickly getting the better of him. “I’m glad we agree, _messire_.”

“…right.”

“Do you think you can remember that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Genesis’s frown deepened. “I am…not incapable of learning.”

“ _Bien sûr_ , but methinks it’d be best if you made sure. Repetition works best for memorizing, _non_?”

Though the statement bewildered him, the slight tug on his arm made it clear that the healer meant what he said. And something inside of him declined to argue with it, against the nonsensicalness of insinuating that he, of all people, didn’t know how to remember basic facts. Instead, he bent down and kissed him again. 

It was better than he’d thought it would be. He’d been expecting something awkward and strained, something tolerable but better left alone. Instead, it felt natural, satisfying, better even than an empty inbox or a stack of crisply ironed shirts. Those things were cold, rational. The kiss was something else entirely, a combination of heat rising to his face and strength surging into his limbs, an irresistible urge to press closer to him, one that was complicated by the fact that doing so would either require him to pick Mirk up or for Mirk to knock him over. 

Reluctantly, Genesis ended it. He was relieved to find that Mirk was still smiling at him, even as he let his arm go and stepped back toward his door. “ _Enfin_ …I’ll…see you in the morning, then?”

Genesis nodded. “In…the morning.”

With a slight, awkward wave, Mirk fumbled around behind himself for the door handle, retreating into his room without turning his back to him until the last possible second, the door shutting again immediately afterwards. Genesis stared at it for a time. The House was dead silent, as always, but he couldn’t hear any footsteps heading away from him on the other side of the door.

Sighing, adjusting his coat on his shoulders, Genesis tried to shake some sense back into his head as he continued on down the hall, toward wherever his bedroom had decided to move itself to that evening. The very end, probably, near the window opposite the stairs. It tended to lurk there when he was feeling particularly out of sorts.

One hurdle down, a dozen or more left to go.


	3. The Perplexities of Human Displays of Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you thought that getting the whole dating bit out of the way would get rid of the awkwardness, you'd be dead wrong.
> 
> Come for the juvenile (but requisite) discussion of various anatomical regions (for the good of medical science, of course), stay to find out exactly what grimdark eldritch horrors find arousing. 
> 
> Enjoy, and thanks for reading/waiting so patiently for this update!

“So…”

Mirk jumped, head whipping up. He’d been reviewing that morning’s charts, consumed by thoughts of coordination and delegation, too focused to notice their arrival. Yule and Danu had silently sat down across from him at the break room’s main table, both of them staring at him, eerily similar scheming grins on their faces. He didn’t have to ask to sort out what they were waiting for a report on—it’d been the same every day for the past week, happening every morning without fail, even when one of them ostensibly had off. Sighing, Mirk put down his pen and began shuffling the charts into a pile. It was hopeless trying to get any work done until their curiosity had been sated. “No. Nothing yet.”

“Oh, come _on_!” Yule groaned, rolling his eyes.

Danu leaned across the table toward him, voice lowered, her tone conspiratorial. “You are sure he knows how it works, right?”

Mirk laughed, though he knew it’d do little to hide his doubt. “Of course. It’s…you just can’t expect him to do things that quickly. It takes time. He has to get used to the thought of it.”

Yule’s skepticism was unwavering. “Maybe you’d better check.”

“Methinks that might make him worse about it.”

“What’s worse than nothing?” Yule shot back.

“It’s…complicated.” Mirk tried to think of a way to explain, to impress on them that things were fine enough. He’d been hoping to avoid the inevitable questions and needling from his fellow healers until things had progressed further. He should have known that’d be impossible. Healers had a way of knowing things: he’d used his skills to his own advantage enough times to notice when his shielding was being empathically prodded, searched for the traces of foreign magic that lingered within an empath’s aura after they’d been intimate with someone.

Of course, any attempts he may have made at being quiet about things had been absolutely crushed when he’d been foolish enough to assume that there wouldn’t be anyone watching the front entrance when he’d come in last week at three in the morning for a 5A.M. shift. The Supply Corps hadn’t yet picked up the laundry crates that had been stacked at the curb by the night shift, and Mirk had spotted a prime opportunity in them to even the playing field between him and Genesis. He’d vaulted up onto one of the crates, grabbed him by the shoulders, and kissed him before Genesis could puzzle out what he was doing. Not that the commander protested, exactly—though Mirk remembered a bit of grumbling about impropriety and public displays of affection, what he really remembered was how excellent the kiss had been, just the right length and depth and free of the attendant crick in the neck that usually came with kissing him. 

But it’d come at a price. Namely, that of escaping the traditional daily interrogation that was given to every healer in a new relationship.

It would have helped if Genesis wasn’t so secretive and vague about anything even tangentially related to sex. It was so bad that Mirk felt a sort of second-hand embarrassment whenever the topic came up, despite having no issue with it himself. The commander’s reticence was problematic enough without it spreading to him too. It was making the nagging, guilty feeling that ate at the back of his mind sometimes, mostly late at night or when he saw something that reminded him of his family, worse. Rather than dwelling on Genesis’s issues, he elected to shift the topic to more practical concerns, ones more easily explained away. “It doesn’t matter. A little time can be a good thing, you know. It’d be a bit much, going from nothing for years to everything all at once.”

The diversion worked, sort of. There was an immediate shift in the atmosphere, the other healers leaning in closer until they were both practically lying on the table from the waist up. “I hadn’t thought of that one.” Yule drawled, grinning at him. “How big is he?”

“Not as bad as you’d think?” Danu asked.

“Tolerable, or terrifying?” 

That hadn’t been the direction afield that Mirk had been hoping it’d go in. He gave a helpless shrug, trying to beat back the nonsensical feeling that the topic wasn’t a proper one to talk about. Genesis really was warping his viewpoint. “I don’t know?”

“What do you mean by that?” Yule scoffed. “We’re healers. Whose dick haven’t we seen yet, huh?”

“If that’s true, then why are you asking me?” Mirk countered. Though, Yule did have a point. He was certain there was still a chart floating around somewhere with the dimensions of over half the members of the infantry written in it. For the common good, of course.

“As if you can tell from looking at it while a guy’s passed out,” Danu said, elbowing Yule in the side, pointedly.

“Oh, you just say that because your worthless husband’s practically got—”

Danu elbowed him again, more viciously. “Tell me, you ass. Who here has _forty-three_ children?”

“That’s your own damn fault,” Yule worked out, coughing and rubbing at his side.

Mirk’s awkward grin solidified into one of mortification. To be technical about it, it was his fault, since he’d been the one who’d accidentally smacked Danu in the stomach with the fully-magicked staff of life. But, for some reason that was unfathomable to him, no one seemed to remember that he’d done it. After the fifteenth son had come, Mirk had decided it’d be best to never mention it. “She does have a point, Yule.”

“But you shared a room with him, for Christ’s sake! You should know!”

Sighing, Mirk shook his head. “It was better not to know then. Besides, it’s rude to do that without asking.”

“Ah! Little brother, there you are! I have a thing for you.”

Danu and Yule both made exasperated noises that were blotted out by the booming voice from off behind them. K’aekniv was standing in the door to the breakroom, a sheaf of papers in hand. They were all warped and discolored, as if they’d been soaked and then half-heartedly laid out to dry. Ignoring the glares that the other two healers shot him, K’aekniv ambled over to the table, presenting the papers to Mirk with a flourish. “This month’s injury lists from the healers with my division. I told you they’d made them!”

Mirk accepted the paperwork with a bit of relief, more over the interruption than having the tallies. “Oh, good. Thank you, Niv. Where did you find them?”

K’aekniv shrugged his wings, distracted now that he’d noticed the looks Yule and Danu were giving him. “The Star and Rifle. Simple.”

Suddenly, Yule’s face lit up, his scheming grin coming back to life. “Hey! You lived with Genesis when you were kids, right?”

K’aekniv nodded. “Twenty years! My whole youth, wasted. Terrible.”

“So you’ve got to know.”

“Eh?”

“How big’s his dick?”

K’aekniv considered the question with undue seriousness, completely unruffled by it. He held out his hands, moving them further apart and closer together as he thought, squinting at the space between them with one eye shut. “Been years…eh, there, I think, is right.”

Danu and Yule both peered at the gap for a moment, then turned back to Mirk. Mirk, who was cringing, partially to hide his interest, but also from apprehension. When the half-angel looked up and saw this, he immediately reached out and clapped his hands on Mirk’s shoulders, voice grave, but reassuring. “You are doing a great service for the infantry. The pay raises will finally come. God will protect you.”

Mirk had a feeling God had nothing to do with any of it.

Yule smacked K’aekniv in the arm, scowling at him though he was still talking to Mirk. “It’ll be fine. Besides, maybe he bottoms. Who knows?”

K’aekniv made another pensive noise. Before he could speak, Yule hit him again, making the half-angel release his hold on Mirk. “What?” K’aekniv asked, offended. “I have known him longest! I can guess!”

Danu cut in with a dismissive wave of her hand. “That’s the point. You’re all _guessing_. Why don’t you just talk to him, Mirk?” 

Her sympathy was palpable through his shielding. Mirk didn’t know whether to be glad she cared about him, or worried that she was so concerned. “I will, when the time’s right.”

“It’s been _three hundred years_!” Yule protested.

“…well…you know, there were others…” Mirk mumbled, tilting his head forward, hoping his hair might hide most of his blush. 

It didn’t. Yule folded his arms and glowered at him. “Oh, yeah. Right. We’ve heard about them. Remind me why none of them worked out?”

Because those were temporary. Because they were an act of protest against a God cruel enough to take Genesis away from him so suddenly, so coldly, without giving him a chance to try to make things right. Because they were there to patch a hole, not to fix it for good or to start anew. He felt foolish saying that he’d known for so long and with such certainty that Genesis was the only one he could truly love, the only one he could offer his life to. It sounded too servile, too weak in comparison to the stalwart individualism and self-reliance that most K’maneda thrived on. But he’d come from a different place, a different people. The emotions of his mother and grandfather had felt different from anyone else’s. Different in a way that gave them both their greatest strength and their undoing—they both had a will as unyielding and brilliant as diamond, consumed with devotion that could only be pledged to one being and one ideal, no matter the price.

He was the same as they were. He’d always known. He’d fought it, once or twice, but it was hopeless—some things were as fundamental to a human spirit as the heart and brain were to a body, impossible to remove no matter what kind of trouble they caused. Uncomfortably, Mirk hugged himself and forced the words out, before Yule and Danu started trying to read his emotions even more than they undoubtedly already were. “They weren’t him.”

Instead of the patronizing sigh he’d been expecting, he got a sympathetic pat on the shoulder instead. Yule had unfolded his arms and reached out to him, his stubborn insistence gone for the moment. “Christ, it must be terrible.”

“Terrible?” Mirk asked.

“Being you.”

Mirk shook his head. “Oh, _pas du tout_. It’s…I don’t mind going slow, really.”

“Really.”

“No! It’s nice, having someone be such a gentleman…it’s hard to find these days, _n’est-ce pas?_ ”

K’aekniv burst into laughter. Yule, horrified, started to shake him. 

“Are you _nuts_?”

Mirk let himself be shook, unresisting, though he knew that he had to look at least a little exasperated by that point. “Don’t you think it’d make sense for him to be a little cold, considering how mean people are to him?”

Yule let him go, grudgingly, thinking this over as K’aekniv continued to cackle off to his side, clutching at his middle. “I guess you have a point. He’s still an ass, though.”

Acceding to the implicit compromise, Mirk nodded and returned to his charts. “He’ll sort things out eventually.”

At least, Mirk sincerely hoped he would. Otherwise, he’d be forced to take things into his own hands.

\- - -

Genesis had reached a conclusion. He’d have to approach it all from a tactical perspective. Emotions, affections, closeness: these were foreign to him. There appeared to be no adequate way for the proper gesture-expressions that went along with them to be taught, either. He needed, wanted to advance, but had no path to follow. It was like being stranded at noon in the middle of an asphalt parking lot, caught with no shadows to work with and no way to avoid the heat and light. A desperate situation. But, tactically speaking…

…every plain, every hill could be taken, no matter the odds. It was only a matter of proper strategy.

The couch, then, would be his battlefield. It had its strengths and weaknesses. It had proper cover—nothing was getting into his House, not without being badly maimed first. It also was familiar. He’d had the thing for well over a century. It’d been on discount, owing to the fact that it was supposedly haunted. Genesis thought it perfectly reasonable that a couch that size would need to consume some sort of energy to continue to exist in such excellent condition. A few fresh corpses now and then were a small price to pay for quality craftsmanship. 

Familiarity, though, was also an obstacle: they had their routines, and he was leery of breaking them. It would give him away instantly, crossing over from his proper place at the left end of it to Mirk’s territory on the right-hand side. His intentions would be painfully obvious. It would generate expectations. He needed a way to divert the healer’s attention long enough for him to advance unnoticed, giving him the much-needed advantage of surprise to compensate for his complete lack of practical knowledge about the maneuver. 

He’d been pondering his options for the past two evenings, a book propped on his crossed knees as a decoy, allowing him to study the room and its contents without raising suspicions. It had done him little good. Genesis could think of nothing that’d provide an adequate distraction short of knocking something off a bookcase. Even that, he thought, wouldn’t do him much good. Mirk’s infernal cabal of cats that continually ghosted about the House knocked things over often enough on their own.

The thought of the cats—their continual shedding on his furniture, their fondness for leaping down on him from high places, their ten hand-painted food and water dishes cluttering up his kitchen floor—was annoying enough to fully derail him from the task at hand. Genesis didn’t come back to himself until a particularly loud clap of thunder made Mirk give a surprised yelp and drop the bandages he was spelling. They rolled off under the coffee table. The shadows lingering there weren’t feeling malicious enough that evening to throw them back at Mirk.

As Mirk grudgingly got up and knelt down beside the table to retrieve them, Genesis realized that a prime opportunity had already presented itself to him and he’d nearly been too complacent to notice it. He was accustomed to the storms that tended to bunch up near the House: a substantial concentration of chaotic magic such as the aura generated by the House would do that. He’d learned to ignore them. But Mirk, despite having lived there for years, hadn’t. 

His bandages retrieved, Mirk sat back down on his side of the couch with a huff. “…rain every other day… _c’est impossible_ …” he muttered to himself, as he made an attempt at sorting out which parts of the bandages had been magicked and which hadn’t.

Though the comment was slightly aggravating, Genesis didn’t respond. That would only serve to fix his attention on him. Instead, he reached out with his magic to the House’s and listened. If he concentrated, he could tell when the lightning was coming. The next time it did, he moved slightly toward the center of the couch during the attendant growl of thunder, watching for Mirk’s reaction out of the corner of one eye. He was too caught up in clutching his bandages and half-cursing the storm in his odd, archaic, grandmotherly way to notice that Genesis had moved. 

Noting this with approval, Genesis waited for the next strike, and then repeated the action. Again, Mirk didn’t notice. By the feel of it, the present storm was starting to break up. It was easy enough to stop that. Surreptitiously, he began feeding the House some of his magic, just enough to keep things unsettled. It made him feel a bit unsettled himself, but storms always tended to do that. The impulsiveness, the disregard for proper procedure, all of the side-effects of an overly chaotic atmosphere were distracting, but altogether worth it. The execution of his strategy was more important. 

Another handful of inches. And another. And then, with one more, he was nearly within arm’s reach of Mirk, nearly to his goal. That was when he noticed it. He’d only gotten so close in so little time because Mirk had been mirroring his motions. And he’d been too distracted by his own self-satisfaction to catch on. 

Sighing, Genesis set aside his book. Mirk was grinning at him, now, deliberately setting aside his own work as well. He could feel the nerve in his forehead beginning to twitch. “I see you’ve…moved.”

Mirk nodded. “It took half as long, this way.”

“…right.”

“Besides,” Mirk said, patting him on the arm nearest him, “I’d rather not ruin your plans.”

“What…gives you the impression there…ever was one?”

The smile Mirk flashed him was genuine and warm, even if the rest of the situation was abysmal. “You never do anything without a plan, _messire_.”

Genesis couldn’t say what it was, exactly. A residual frustration, perhaps, or the hint of a challenge in Mirk’s voice, or the chaotic atmosphere generated by connecting to the House and the storm. Instead of giving the maneuver up as a failure and returning to his book, he uncrossed his legs and leaned over toward Mirk, slipping a finger under his chin, tilting his head upward. “Is that…so?”

He felt him shiver, though his smile didn’t waver. “ _Complètement. Messire._ ”

Genesis frowned. “Enough…with that.”

“With what, _messire_?”

He leaned in further toward him, downward, until his lips were close beside his ear. Mirk was shaking, now. Genesis wasn’t entirely certain whether that was a positive reaction, or one he should be concerned by, but the way the healer was pressing closer to him rather than away made him favor the former conclusion. “You know…very well…what.”

“ _Messire_ , methinks you should know by now I can’t read you…”

Genesis didn’t know what to make of it. He was accustomed to being annoyed. However, the feeling wasn’t usually accompanied by a mounting urge to pin the offending party to the nearest stationary object and kiss them. “I…find that term to be…unnecessarily feudal. Considering the situation.”

Mirk shifted, and a warm hand curled around the back of his neck. “I’m afraid I don’t understand… _messire_ …”

It wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Or, rather, it wasn’t how he’d anticipated it’d be: slow, purposeful, with carefully selected words and motions. It was quick. Instinctual, something untaught, like summoning magic. Genesis drew back just far enough to meet him with a kiss that was hard and demanding. He had no idea where it was all going, but he was certain that his back wasn’t meant to be continually bent in half just to reach Mirk. Genesis seized him about the middle only to find that Mirk was already scrambling to heave himself up onto his knees. The flurry of movement ended with the healer kneeling astride his legs, leaning flush against him, chest to chest. 

It was disconcerting: like that, Mirk’s head was above his, leaving Genesis looking up for once rather than down. With a frustrated noise, Mirk kissed him again, desperately, taking his head in both hands.

“Why do you have to be so _tall_?” Mirk protested between kisses. 

“Rather…I would question…the mechanics of you…being short, considering your…heritage.”

With a harrumph that would have seemed more dignified if it wasn’t accompanied by him giving up on kneeling, sitting down in his lap instead, Mirk shook his head and folded his arms. “I _was_ tall, when I was young. Everyone else just kept getting bigger. And you,” he said, prodding him in the chest, “were always too tall. Then and now.”

“My apologizes,” Genesis replied, flatly.

He wasn’t certain whether he should be worried by the sudden, unmistakably cunning look that’d come onto Mirk’s face, or encouraged by it. “An apology would mean more if you’d make it up to me. Somehow. _Messire_.”

Genesis frowned. “We’ve just…discussed…that.”

It had to be a particularly pathetic attempt at looking innocent, Genesis thought, if even he could see through it. “Have we?”

“Yes.”

“Oh…well…”

“If you want something…you are best served by…asking for it.”

With speed Genesis hadn’t been expecting out of him, Mirk seized him by his shirtfront, pulling him back down to his level. His eyes were flickering with his magic, their deep violet-blue suddenly full of dozens of tiny points of light. For once, Mirk seemed to be at a loss for words. 

And for the first time during the whole, accursedly difficult process, Genesis felt absolutely certain of himself, the desire in him too strong to be beaten back with concerns over propriety and procedure. His arms finding his way back around Mirk’s trembling, unnaturally warm frame, he ducked his head and pressed his lips to his neck. Mirk tilted his head off to one side to give him more room.

Words could never escape Mirk for too long. As he kissed lightly, appraisingly, down the curve of his neck, he felt one of his hands creep up into his hair, pushing him closer. “ _More_ ,” he said, something in the tone of his voice making him obey without pause. “Like…like you want it…”

Genesis paused, allowed the response that came instinctively to his lips to escape him. “What makes you…think I don’t?”

Mirk made a strangled sound, half moan and half exasperation, his hand clenching in his hair and urging him onward. He pressed his kisses harder, adding in calculated bites and licks when these didn’t seem to be enough. Mirk’s hold on him was so adamant, the groans he gave when he moved faster, the mewls and whimpers that escaped him when he slowed, all of it was so overwhelming that he didn’t think twice about anything.

Until he heard Mirk start to snicker, and he realized that he no longer had to lean down quite so far to get at his neck.

Genesis drew back, staring for a moment at the shadows that were holding Mirk up. The act of acknowledging them made whatever force was summoning them disperse, dropping the healer back in his lap. Mirk shook his head at him, still laughing. Genesis noticed then that what he’d been doing had left red marks all over his neck. He cringed, brushing the back of his hand over them. “I…did not…intend to m—”

“It’s fine,” Mirk said, taking his hand before Genesis could pull it back, pressing the palm of it against the curve of his neck. He was incredibly, impossibly warm. “Hmm, though, that’s nice too…”

“I do not understand.”

Mirk took his other hand, lifting it to the opposite side of his neck. Genesis didn’t resist. “Is it so important that you do, Genesis?”

Wrapping his fingers around Mirk’s neck, feather light, Genesis sighed.

“Apparently…not.”

\- - -

The city spread out before him was beautiful, its spires gleaming with the rising sun, all its walls white and its paths the red of raw earth. It was peaceful, in that moment before dawn, no one stirring. No one except for an indistinct figure on the road leading down into the city from the hill he was standing on top of. Though he couldn’t be certain, he had a feeling the figure was female, from the light sound of its voice and the modest way that it waved its hand at him, beckoning.

_Come on!_

He waved back to the silhouette of a woman despite turning away from her and looking over his shoulder. The road continued behind him, off into a darkness that the sunrise was unable to banish. 

_No, I can’t._

The city was inviting, clean and bright; the breeze coming in off over its rooftops was scented by the sea. It reminded him of something, somewhere. He couldn’t be sure what. But he was certain he couldn’t follow the woman down into the city, not then, not ever.

_You promised!_

He must have. Otherwise, why would he feel so guilty, why would there be such a twisting in his chest and such a lump in his throat? He looked back into the darkness again. Down at himself. The tops of his bare feet were blistering. So were the backs of his hands. 

_I’m sorry._

Shuddering, he stepped back from the city, back into the darkness. It was cold there. Quiet. Like a tomb. Something in it beckoned to him too, something voiceless, formless, but nevertheless present. 

_But we’ve all been waiting for you…_

He shook his head, turning his back to the woman, and ran from the city, from the dawn.

“I’m sorry…”

“Sorry…for what?”

Mirk sat up, rubbing at his eyes. For a few moments, he was too disoriented to respond—it was pitch black in the room, and no matter how many times he blinked, that didn’t change. There was a tired sigh from off in the darkness. Footsteps, barely audible. Then the darkness lifted with a click. Genesis had waved on the lamp by the far end of the couch.

“Oh…I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep…”

“It would…appear so.” 

As the grogginess lifted, Mirk began to remember what he’d been doing—he’d finished his shift at ten that evening, but hadn’t been able to find Genesis and had taken the transporter back to the House. The spell always made him feel ill, so he’d mixed himself a drink and settled in on the couch under a quilt, staring into the poor excuse for a fire that he’d coaxed the House into lighting, wondering if it’d be better to just go to bed instead of waiting to see if Genesis would return. He’d still been deliberating when he must have drifted off.

Mirk was glad that he’d stayed. The dream, though meaningless, left an odd, hollow feeling inside of him. Untangling himself from the quilt, he pushed it aside, hoping that Genesis would get the hint and sit down. “What time is it?” he asked.

Genesis stared at the empty spot beside Mirk on the couch, but came no closer. “Half three.”

“Ah, it’s late…well, at least I don’t have to go back in until two…” Mirk looked Genesis over, pointedly. He was still dressed for work—the indecently tall and dramatic boots, the heavy greatcoat, the concealment spells on his weapons banished by the overpowering chaotic magic of the House. When Genesis didn’t move, preoccupied by some manner of dust on the lamp he’d just waved on, Mirk cleared his throat and spoke again. “Why don’t you sit down and take all of that off, _messire_?”

After debating this for a time, still staring at the lamp, Genesis sighed and moved to take off his sword. Mirk was still struck, even after all the years and the handful of times he’d actually managed to beat Genesis in a fight, by how menacing the weapon was. It was almost as long as the coffee table in front of the couch that Genesis set it down on, tendrils of shadow still clinging to the scabbard though their master had already moved on. Off came the coat, which was soon meticulously folded, followed by one knife, then another, and then Mirk was getting impatient, fiddling with the quilt to keep himself from grabbing hold of Genesis by the belt and dragging him back onto the couch. Why did he even need so many weapons? He could kill most anything with a gesture and a spell, even if the target was magicked. It was probably some reason that was annoyingly practical, just like everything else he owned or did. 

Like the boots: tall to keep his legs from being unduly bruised from the implementation of the archaic martial art he favored, tall to provide a useful spare place to put his lengthier, more heavily magicked daggers, tall to keep puddles and muck and blood off one’s new uniform trousers. Not tall to frustrate Mirk, decade after decade, with continual thoughts of how very long his legs were and how very slim they were and how very much he’d prefer to be tangled up in them instead of being stuck staring at them like an idiot. Mirk tried not to watch as Genesis, at long last, sat down and began the tedious process of unlacing and unbuckling them, but found it impossible. How naïve he’d been, thinking that finally being closer to Genesis would make it all less overwhelming. It was three times as worse than it had been before, now that they were together—now the only things keeping him from making long-held dreams into reality were Genesis’s stubborn obliviousness and his own reluctance to push things too far, too fast.

Mirk wondered if it was some unconscious acknowledgement of how badly he now needed his nightly dose of intimacy that had kept him from going up to bed when he’d had the chance. 

“…yes?”

Mirk shook his head, resenting the heat that rose to his cheeks. He’d been caught staring at him again, and, once again, the only reaction he got in response to it from Genesis was a skeptically arched eyebrow as the commander nudged his boots out of the way, under the table. The words were out of Mirk’s mouth before he could think to check them, make them more coy and clever: “I missed you.”

Genesis frowned. “You saw me this morning.”

He was too tired, too frustrated, too troubled by the lingering memories of the dream he’d just woken up from, to play the game with him that night. Rather than waiting for him to catch on, Mirk scooted over flush against his side, putting his hand over Genesis’s. He glanced down at his touch, considering Mirk’s hand for a moment before slowly turning his over and taking hold of it properly.

“I…see.”

It was difficult to tell which one of them moved first—and did it matter, even? All that Mirk cared about was that Genesis didn’t hesitate in turning toward him, didn’t get preoccupied by the awkwardness of managing to lie down on the couch while Mirk was already sliding over on top of him. Instead, Genesis helped him as best he could, taking hold of him and lifting him up just far enough for him to get his legs up onto the couch underneath him. Then he wrapped his arms around him as he lay back, pulling Mirk down with him, meeting him for a kiss that was more adamant than Mirk had expected. 

Mirk shifted onto his side, wriggling into the space between Genesis’s thin frame and the back of the couch. It was a more intimate position than he’d thought Genesis would tolerate outside a proper bedroom with the lights off (or something else suitably Victorian), but it was also the only position that didn’t lead to strained necks or stiff backs. And, better yet, it meant he could do more than just hold on to him. He could touch him, really _feel_ him, could run a hand along his side, like he did as Genesis turned to face him, could dig his fingers into his back and revel in the sharp breath the motion triggered. A breath that was, to his delight, followed by a sweep of tongue over his lips, by a possessive hand fitting into the small of his back and pressing them tightly together. Mirk opened his mouth to him without hesitation.

It still overwhelmed Mirk, the slick pressure of Genesis’s tongue sliding against his own, the hunger with which he attacked his mouth. It drew muffled moans and whines out of him, made him push and rub against him, one leg curling around both of the commander’s for extra purchase. Mirk realized too late that he was being too demanding, yelping in surprise as Genesis’s body gave way and he found himself on top of him again. He’d nearly shoved him onto the floor. It was hard to remember that, despite Genesis’s strength, he still wasn’t particularly heavy. With a sheepish laugh, Mirk untangled himself from the kiss and sat up on his knees before he ended up crushing all the weight out of Genesis’s lungs, sitting on his lap instead. Not that he needed to breathe, really, but it was the thought that counted.

“Ah…sorry, Gen.”

The way Genesis looked up at him then didn’t help any. His typically ashen face was tinged red across his cheekbones; his colorless lips that always seemed to be clamped shut into a disapproving frown were open and had been turned a faint pink by the force of their kissing. Genesis lifted a hand to his face, shaking his head. Mirk leaned into the touch, sighing at the pleasant sensation of his cold skin against his burning cheek. 

“It is…immaterial.”

Mirk shifted, turned his head to kiss apologetically at the inside of his wrist. His arm went rigid at the touch of his lips, and he made a startled noise Mirk had never heard the likes of from him before. Mirk paused. “What?”

Genesis looked away from him, quickly. Even worse, he could have sworn the redness on his face had gotten worse. That he'd _blushed_. “…nothing.”

“Hmm…” He couldn’t resist. Mirk kissed at his wrist again, adding a brush of tongue. Genesis hissed, his free hand snapping up and grabbing reflexively at Mirk’s thigh. “Methinks that doesn’t seem like nothing, _messire_ …”

“It’s…it’s none of your concern,” Genesis growled. It wasn’t even the slightest bit threatening.

Mirk felt a thrill at licking him again, at drawing a jumble of hissing and clicking invective out of him. He knew Genesis would resent him for turning one of his usual lines back on him, but Mirk couldn’t resist. “If you want something, you should ask for it.”

He’d expected him to curse. To wrench his hand away. Genesis did, at least, have the presence of mind to scowl at him as, hesitantly, he ran his thumb over Mirk’s bottom lip. Curious, Mirk licked at the pad of it.

The reaction was instant—Genesis hissed again and pressed his thumb into his mouth. When Mirk sucked on the tip of it, briefly, the commander’s hand started to shake. And when he stopped, Genesis made a strangled, desperate noise that made Mirk’s breath catch in his throat. 

“Oh…” Mirk reached up and took Genesis’s hand in both of his own, shocked to meet no resistance. “You…like that?”

There was a stubbornly defiant note to his voice, despite his continued pliancy. “The chaos…wears at them. It…makes them…tender.”

Asking permission was the only right thing to do, Mirk supposed. It had nothing to do with making Genesis actually admit to wanting it aloud, though the desire was plain to be read on his usually inscrutable face. Of course. “So, you’d like it if…”

“I…it…” In the end, Genesis resorted to pressing the tips of his fingers against his lips. “…yes.”

He could have made him say more, Mirk knew. That was part of what made it all so intoxicating, what made him throw himself with abandon into Genesis’s clutches: the Destroyer could break him so easily, could snap his bones and shred his skin with magic made to rip apart realms, could crush his neck with merciless, powerful fingers. But Genesis didn’t. Instead, those fingers were trembling with want as Mirk took two of them into his mouth, sliding his tongue between them as he began to suck. 

They were cold and smooth and just as sensitive as Genesis had said they were—it only took a few licks to draw a groan out of the commander, a noise that was only halfway human. It made Mirk’s stomach grow tight, made him suck harder, lips sliding up and down the length of his fingers in a motion so suggestive that thinking of the parallel made him give a moan he was glad Genesis’s hand muffled. It was even harder not to think of it when Genesis began to move as well, plunging his fingers deeper into his mouth, all the way down to the knuckles of his hand. His fingers were so long he nearly bit down on them in surprise. Mirk swallowed around them instead, savoring the taste of him, the faint bitterness of his soap.

Mirk watched him as he continued, delighted by the enraptured way Genesis stared back at him, as if, in that moment, he was the only thing that existed. The commander’s breath had quickened, now almost normal instead of inhumanly slow. Mirk took his ring finger into his mouth as well, scraped his teeth against all three of them. Genesis’s eyes widened, clouding over dark with his rising magic. He said something in his mother tongue that Mirk couldn’t understand, something dark and sharp. Mirk filled in the words he wanted to hear instead, as he sucked harder: _more, give me more, harder, faster, **more**._

He didn’t realize that he’d begun to rub against him until he felt Genesis grinding back, his free hand caressing his thigh, stroking up and down its outside. A wave of desire rose up in Mirk, making him wish that there weren’t layers of fabric between them and that there was more than his fingers inside of him, that he was riding him instead. But he bit back against his need—he didn’t want their first time to be like that, at four in the morning on the couch with so little of the delicious foreplay he’d been fantasizing about for decades. It took all his will to force himself to go still. He kept licking at him, however, kept working over his delicate fingers until all the coldness was sucked out of them, savoring the possessive, lustful growls this drew out of Genesis. By the time Mirk made himself release his hand, he could plainly feel his arousal beneath him. It was the first time he’d pushed Genesis far enough to get a good sense of what he was like when he was hard. Just thinking about it pushing inside him was enough to make him reconsider his decision not to continue. Letting out a deep breath, Mirk lay down again, half on top of him and half off to one side, closing his eyes and trying to convince himself to stop imagining such exquisitely obscene scenarios. There’d be time for that. There’d be _years_ for that.

Just not…yet.

Mirk waited for Genesis to put his arms back around him. When it’d been over a minute and he still hadn’t, Mirk opened one eye to check on him. Genesis was staring, aghast, at the hand Mirk had been sucking on, unable to sort out what to do with it or the saliva still coating his fingers. Muffling a laugh against Genesis’s chest, Mirk grabbed hold of his wrist and wiped his hand off on the front of his robes. 

Genesis sputtered at him. “That’s…you…cannot…”

“You can’t have it on your clothes, but you can have it in your mouth all night? That’s a little much, even for you, _messire_.”

With a snarl of frustration, Genesis rolled onto his side, pinning Mirk against the back of the couch. “It’s _different_.”

Tucking his arms around Genesis instead, Mirk shook his head and sighed, closing his eyes again. “You’ll just have to learn to get used to it. Gen.”

“I…fail to understand…your reasoning,” Genesis grumbled, though he returned the embrace.

“Hmm. I _could_ explain, but then neither of us would get to sleep, methinks.”

The commander jumped on the chance to change the subject. “I will not sleep on the…couch in my own home.”

“Oh? You want to get up?”

The grudging silence that followed spoke for him well enough. Snickering, Mirk made a guess at where Genesis’s lips had to be, his aim more or less correct enough for a comparatively chaste good-night kiss. “Wait until morning, at least.”

“…fine.”

As he set himself to the task of convincing himself to calm down enough to sleep, Mirk felt Genesis press a light kiss to his forehead in return. Mirk snuggled up against him, relieved to find that he’d relaxed enough for the closeness to be comforting rather than arousing. Sooner than he thought, he was drifting off again.

At the very least, he thought, as the darkness slipped over his mind, he shouldn’t be having any more bad dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious: the height difference really is that bad. Mirk is 5'7" which, as he points out, was actually pretty tall for the late 1600s. Unfortunately, it's now the 21st century. And Gen is a decidedly inhuman 7 feet tall. Which isn't too terribly rare among mages, as there are a lot of half-demons and half-angels and most of them are ridiculously big (Niv's 7'2", for example), but it still makes relationships sort of...inconvenient.
> 
> Maybe someone should give Mirk a footstool to carry around, or something. XD


	4. The Perplexities of Human Religious Practices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you thought that three hundred years would have been enough time for Mirk to get over the whole Catholic guilt thing, you'd be wrong. Dead wrong.
> 
> This section also features a magic church, the revelation of where part of Mirk's particular Mirk-ness comes from, Genesis being very confused, and an ugly nightshirt. With dolphins on it.
> 
> A chapter that's a little bit sentimental, a smidge angsty, and just a hair cheesy. But there's humor at the end, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh, it's been a while, hasn't it? School basically ate me for a few months there. Anyway, hopefully I'll be able to wrap this piece up in a week or two. Only one chapter left after this! The big payoff, as it were. Uh. If you're into that kind of thing. Which I assume you are, considering you've read this far.
> 
> Thanks for being patient! Enjoy~~~

He was doing things wrong. It wasn’t conjecture or a lack of confidence that made him think it: it was objective fact. The House didn’t rearrange itself so thoroughly unless something was truly amiss.

At first, Genesis had ignored it—the House was always moving things around, shuffling rooms and levels to accommodate the vicissitudes of its chaotic magic. Mirk’s room slowly moving further away from the fifth floor landing was a reasonable enough change. He had no doubt that, just as it’d moved closer and closer to the end of the hall, it’d drift back on its own toward its original position soon enough. Instead, the room had kept jumping further and further away, the length of the moonlit hall leading to it growing until going to bed meant embarking on a serious hike. 

That evening, things were even further removed from normal. The rooms were rotating. Though all the windows and doors that lined the hall were identical to the untrained eye, Genesis could tell them apart by the way they interacted with the House’s magic. They’d walked past the room where he kept all his stolen angelic grimoires three times already, the spells that kept the books from pitching a fit at being exposed to the chaotic atmosphere crackling around the doorframe at the strain caused by his continual passing. The House, it seemed, was determined to force him into making a decision.

It wasn’t as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. The problem had been plaguing him for weeks, prying its way into every sensible or practical musing, endlessly frustrating him. If he’d been able to forget it for a day or two, he thought, he might have been able to solve the problem. As it stood, he had no idea what he was supposed to do about the complications inherent in having Mirk spend the night. 

It wasn’t the sort of thing one could do in half-measures. Once Mirk was invited in, there’d be no removing him. Not that he wanted to. But it raised a whole host of questions. Who slept where? When would they sleep? How would they sleep, who got what space, what new sort of pre-bed ritual was he supposed to adopt? Where would Mirk put his clothes, his blankets, his terrible records and even more terrible books, his awful dog, the whole of the unnecessary but completely unavoidable mess of _things_ that it seemed the healer couldn’t rest easy without? Would the windows stay open or shut? Would the lights all stay off, or would he have to concede and leave some manner of magelight activated to keep the absolute darkness inside the room from unnerving Mirk so badly that he couldn’t sleep? Who would get the top drawer of the nightstand, as there was only one of them, since there was only one him?

He hadn’t planned on having to ever share space with anyone again. Things would require modifications. There’d have to be _negotiations_. And Genesis had a feeling that it wasn’t the done thing to quibble over closet space before getting on with business, as it were. Which made him think, perhaps, that all his preoccupation with logistics was a clever way of keeping himself from dwelling on the weightiness of proper intercourse, but that was too upsetting of a hypothesis to even fully consider.

Too ridiculous. Too foolish. 

Too… _sentimental_.

“Don’t you think it’s a little further than usual tonight?”

Genesis sighed, forcing himself back to the present. There was no sense in brooding over the future when the now was already a wreck. He shook his head, hazarding a glance down at Mirk. “The House…will do as it wishes.”

The healer responded with an unconvinced humming noise, along with a sidelong stare that Genesis found a touch unnerving. He attempted to ignore it by considering the rooms off on the other side of Mirk. The boxroom where he kept copies of reports he’d handed in centuries ago, followed by the great hall that he preferred to conduct weapons exercises in. That room wasn’t even on the right floor. He frowned, thinking.

“You know, you don’t have to play tricks to get me to stay a little longer…”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he replied, more quickly than he’d meant to.

Mirk laughed. “Oh?”

“I am...attempting to sort out what…it wants.”

Mirk nudged him in the side, edging up close to him. “What the House wants? Or what _you_ want?”

The two were one in the same, as far as Genesis was concerned—but it wasn’t an ideal time to explain to the healer the nuances of how the House’s magic was connected to his, not really. Not with Mirk staring up at him, face sharply divided by the way the moon illuminated the hall. Half in light, half in shadow. Just like it was every time they paused outside Mirk’s door to say goodnight. It was an apt enough metaphor, admittedly. But even the dark half, with its faint suggestion of a smile, with its eye that flickered with magic eager to find a receptive mind to latch onto, all of it still radiated warmth. Even in that dark place Mirk had chosen to stay in, contrary to all reason and comfort, even in his empty tomb of a House, Mirk was still overflowing with life.

With an involuntary snarl of frustration, he reached out and took Mirk’s face in his hands. Mirk didn’t flinch. His smile, however, crept wider.

“I…suspect…you know very well…what I want. Even without your…accursed…mental magicks.”

He nodded, as much as Genesis’s hold on him allowed him to. “Oh, _bien sûr, messire._ ”

Genesis could feel the corner of his mouth twitching. “Then why…feign…ignorance?”

“I’m not.” Mirk shifted, lifting a hand to cover one of Genesis’s. He was unnaturally warm despite the chill. “I’m just waiting for you.”

The words registered as English, but they didn’t make any sense. “…waiting…”

“For you to decide you want it badly enough to take a chance.”

Genesis stepped closer to him, scowling. “I’m not some…sort…of coward.”

“Of course not. You’re very brave.” Though he had to strain his neck a bit to do it, Mirk gave him a slow once-over. “But you know what they say, _messire_. Perfect’s the worst enemy of good.”

And annoyance was the worst enemy of caution, and before Genesis knew exactly what he was doing, he’d dropped his hands from Mirk’s face, seized him about the middle, and picked him up, finally startling the healer enough to at least get a laugh out of him. Two steps forward and he had him up against the wall, and Mirk had his legs wrapped around him for support before Genesis could even begin to get properly cross about how damnably _difficult_ it was to convey one’s affections to a partner whose lips were always a miserable foot and a half out of reach.

Mirk flung an arm around his neck as well, drawing himself up well within range, meeting him for a kiss that was more passionate than accurate. His greenish yellow magic was crackling all around him now, tugging at Genesis’s mind but still not quite able to worm its way in through his chaos. 

“Can’t you get that to go away?” Mirk mumbled against his lips.

“Impossible.”

Another kiss, far less shy of the mark and not any less effusive. “But…Gen, you’re always saying…everything’s possible…technically…”

A growl escaped him as he pressed him more firmly against the wall, freeing his hands, allowing them to wander down Mirk’s sides. He broke the kiss, lowering his lips to his neck. “You were just…complaining about…technicalities...”

“Mph, fine. Then you should at least make it up to me.”

Deliberately, he let his teeth brush against his skin as he replied. It made him more certain of himself, to hear him give a startled gasp in response, to feel his legs clench around him. “Challenge…accepted.”

His neck was soft and warm under his lips, his body entirely unresisting under his hands. It had always amazed him—didn’t anything in Mirk tell him to be cautious, to be wary, to hesitate to offer himself up so willingly? His pulse was fast and hard, easily found and kissed at. That earned him a whimper, a hurry-up sort of press at the back of his head. 

Once he got started, it wasn’t hard to continue. Questions of how and why faded away, banished by Mirk’s receptiveness. He made everything easy for him. When he shifted his kisses back to his mouth, he found it already opened to him. All his clothes, despite their horrid colors and nonsensical patterns, were loose, leaving plenty of room for his hands to slide under them. He tasted like the terrible over-sweet port that he always had after dinner. It was strangely palatable when received second-hand via tongue and lips that were determined to suck the breath out of him.

He let his hands drift lower, fingers straying under the waistband of the ragged pants that had been annoying him all evening with their uneven hems and constant slipping down on his hips. Genesis suddenly found himself wishing that he had something to put Mirk on. It’d make it simple to push the pants off and banish them to some distant nightmare realm while the healer was distracted by his petting, petting at thighs that were soft at their surface and iron underneath, thighs that would part at the slightest nudge to—

Genesis drew back, breaking the kiss, forcing himself to pause, to ask before words completely escaped him. He spit out what came to mind first. If he hesitated too long, he’d start second-guessing all the phrases and syntax again. It was already hard enough with Mirk staring at him.

“If…you would…prefer…that…we…con…ti…”

Mirk was suddenly making a strange expression, one that he couldn’t make any sense of. The smile remained, but it had changed somehow. Genesis didn’t get a chance to study it further. Mirk let his legs go slack, unwrapping them, hiding his head against his chest as he slid, accursedly slow, down his front and back to his feet. He both heard and felt him draw in a deep breath before he lifted his head again. His expression was back to something he recognized, a coy smile.

“Methinks it’s a little late, don’t you? I have first shift…”

Genesis was at a loss for words, reduced to gaping at him like an idiot as he slipped out from under his arms. The House, disobeying him yet again, had reshuffled itself and finally churned out the door to Mirk’s room, recognizable by the spells Genesis had put on it in a vain attempt to keep Mirk’s Hellhound from getting out and running around the House unsupervised. The healer sidled over to it, tossing him a breezy sort of wave as Genesis continued to search for something to say.

“We’ll pick up again tomorrow, _bien_? I promise.”

The rest of his goodnight rambling was nothing but an incomprehensible mumble to Genesis, as Mirk popped open the door with a practiced tap of his hand and flash of magic, disappearing inside before he could so much as work out a yes in response. Once Mirk had vanished into his room, the determination flowed out of him, replaced by an all-too-familiar mix of exasperation and confusion. 

“…miserable…healers…never make any sense…”

With a heavy sigh and a shake of his head, Genesis shoved his hands into his coat pockets and began the grim march down the remainder of the hall to his own bedroom. He was shaking. Twitching. Genesis forced himself to ignore it, along with all the other wretched things his body was doing against his will.

He’d been so _close_. But he’d still misread him. Or been too slow. Or too unclear. Or any of a dozen other things he’d completely failed to recognize. Apparently.

He’d have to think up something more transparent for tomorrow. Because Genesis didn’t think he could bear another night spent staring up at the ceiling, cursing himself and wishing he had some reasonable way to stop thinking about warm, searching hands and all the things they could do long enough to force himself to go to sleep.

\- - -

Mirk slapped the door shut behind himself, just managing to grab hold of the handle and ease it shut before it could slam. Sighing, he leaned against it, trying to quiet his breath enough to hear what was happening out in the hall.

Nothing. Not even an errant flicker or magic. Mirk silently cursed Genesis’s paranoid habit of shielding every room in the House heavily enough to keep just about anything out. Or in, for that matter. He turned and pressed his back against the door, closing his eyes, making a pathetic attempt at calming himself with deep breaths. All he could manage were shallow, quick inhales and rushed exhales. Though the condescending voice in the back of his head had vanished again, its commentary still echoed in his mind. _You know it’s wrong. It’s debased and debauched and sinful and you know it’s wrong. You know. So why are you still doing it?_

Because there was nothing wrong with it. He _knew_ that. He thought he’d been over it. Mirk hadn’t felt a single bit of hesitation about it, not for ages. He loved Genesis. That absolved him, or, at least, it should have. But as things progressed, crept ever closer to what he’d been waiting for, Mirk had started to hear the voice of doubt again, the whispered admonitions of the voice of guilt. 

_Despicable. Pathetic._

It wasn’t. Because love was love, and he was certain of that, even if everything else escaped him.

_This is how you repay Him for all He’s done for you? You turn your back on Him for some desperate humping in some God-forsaken hallway in the middle of the night?_

Yes, there was _that_ , but there was _more_ , and the _more_ made _that_ as right as anything else was.

_You’re lucky they’re all already dead. What would they think of you? Some Guardian of the Faith you turned out to be._

It was all so _stupid_.

Despite knowing better, he pressed his ear to the door again, straining to hear or feel something, anything. Still, there was nothing. Mirk could only guess at how Genesis must have reacted to his abrupt retreat. The commander had probably done what he always did when he thought he’d hurt someone without meaning to, had faded back into the shadows and vanished off to whatever small place he shut himself in when he felt like a monster. 

It broke his heart to think of it. How could he be so cold as to deny Genesis something that stood a chance of freeing him from his own, dark, self-imposed isolation; how could he press him so close then run away like a coward? Biting down violently on his lip, Mirk shoved himself away from the door and stormed across his room, throwing things off his desk until he found what he was looking for—a bottle, three-quarters full. He pried off the cap and threw it somewhere off over one shoulder. Threw his head back and let a good half of the bottle’s contents rush down his throat before he stopped himself to catch his breath again. 

It wasn’t going to do anything, he knew. He could drink himself to oblivion, yet everything would still be a mess by the time he woke up. And then he’d have a hangover for his trouble too, albeit one that he felt he deserved. Mirk retreated to his bed, collapsing onto it and reclining against the headboard, taking another, smaller sip from the bottle. 

It wasn’t as if he was some kind of virginal saint—he’d had his trysts, and he’d enjoyed them. It had been a bitter enjoyment, a spiteful enjoyment, sex fueled by a need for revenge as much as it was by lust: _see if I’ll play fair if You won’t. See if I’ll obey a God cruel enough to take him away from me._

But He had brought Genesis back. Not once, but twice. Twice He had pulled Genesis back from the darkness and returned him to his side, safe and whole despite being put through ordeals fit to kill anyone else permanently. But for what? For him to let Genesis continue to live trapped in his prison of a heart, convinced beyond all doubt that he was a monster, inhuman, incapable of care and love? For Mirk to watch powerless while the Destroyer sunk back into himself and wore himself ever thinner, ever colder, ever more alone? All because he couldn’t pull himself together and _get over it_?

Taking another gulp from the bottle, he shifted on the bed, turning to look over his shoulder at eyes he swore he could feel glaring holes into the back of his head. An old painting hung above his worktable, almost an icon, but not quite gaudy and eastern enough: a faded image of Madonna and child. The same Madonna that had been watching him from the beginning, from when he first began doubting, to when he accepted his abominable nature but pledged himself to restrain it, to when he finally made the decision to damn Holy Law and return Genesis’s awkward, uncertain attempts at affection. And she was watching him now, as he continued to drink and do his best to ignore the remains of his arousal. He’d grown tired of having to bear up under its expectant gaze as of late, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it down. It’d been his mother’s. Mirk had so few things left that were hers. 

“Why?”

Mirk was aware he was talking at a painting. But he’d been talking at paintings and statues for centuries, never any closer to receiving a word back from the God who claimed to love everyone, faults and all, both the righteous and wicked. 

“Why? _Why?_ What do you want from me?”

The Madonna’s eyes were unmoving, staring off into the middle distance now instead of at him. 

“Do you _want_ me to be miserable? Want _him_ to be miserable?”

The Savior had nothing to say on the matter either.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Everything. And now… _this_? Why won’t you _let me be_?”

Still just a painting. Still not any sort of God or Holy Mother muttering dark things at him, but rather his own subconscious, his own guilt. Or was it?

He drained the rest of the bottle in a few furious gulps, glaring at the horrible, accusing painting, and he drew his arm back…and stopped. Held the bottle back over his shoulder until his arm began to shake. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he dropped it on the floor and curled up miserably in his bed, not bothering to undress, pulling a pillow over his head.

Mirk knew what he had to do. He knew where he had to go, if he was determined to get anything close to an answer from anyone, from Savior or Mother or even from himself.

He’d have to go to Nantes.

\- - -

Mirk had taken the Infirmary’s teleporter there fifteen minutes before his shift was over, scurrying off with head hunched down between his shoulders, using a touch of his mind magic to repel the attentions of any inquisitive friends or any comrades in need. Empathy or not, he had to hurry. Genesis was _always_ on time, and he’d been appearing exactly at the end of all his shifts as of late. 

He’d even stopped going through the trouble of getting his fingers cut off and his knees broken to serve as convenient excuses to be there. Instead, the commander would stand uneasily in the far back corner of the receiving room, his coat pulled tight around his thin frame, frowning at errant streaks of dirt and blood on the floor and doing his best not to touch anything while he waited for Mirk to notice him and come say hello. Mirk didn’t know why he felt the need to lurk around instead of coming and sitting down like a reasonable person. The other healers were actually glad to see him, for once. The Comrade’s presence tended to frighten any malingerers into hustling back to their posts, colds and stomachaches forgotten.

Really, he should have been more concerned about it, Mirk thought, as he stared at the night sky hanging above him, the stars obscured by the lights of the city. If Genesis was willing to loiter around the Infirmary just to catch him, he had to be badly smitten. Usually he couldn’t bear more than a few minutes trapped in the morass of coughing and bleeding patients that clogged the receiving room.

Mirk hadn’t used the teleporter to jump across more than a few kilometers in so long that his resistance to it had completely disappeared. Two steps into the church’s back garden and he’d fallen over, curling up on his side, shaking and wracked with dry heaves. He’d arrived near sunset. Now it was nearly midnight, judging by the sound of the traffic on the other side of the garden wall. His body had finally adjusted to the shift in location, allowing him to sit up and regain his feet.

That was another little thing he’d taken for granted. For the past month or so, Genesis had been magicking him almost everywhere he needed to go but couldn’t walk or ride his bicycle to. Over the centuries he’d spent pulling him from place to place through the shadows, Genesis had sorted out how to do it in a way that didn’t make him sick. Genesis really was always thinking of him. Even if he had a hard time showing it.

Mirk was struck, as he looked around the garden, by how little it had changed. He had nothing to do with the church’s upkeep anymore—that duty had fallen to some distant cousin of a cousin ages ago—but he assumed that the caretaker had to have changed a few times between the reign of the Sun King and then. Yet it still looked nearly the same as it had when he’d been a boy, full of meticulously trimmed fruit trees and banks of flowers that were still thick with blooms despite it nearly being autumn. The same fountain still trickled quietly to itself in the center of it, the water rising from the upheld chalice of an angel whose features had been worn into nothing over the centuries. Mirk trudged over to it, stooping down beside the edge and dipping a hand into the dark water. Still cold. He lifted a handful of it to his mouth. Still cleaner than anything that came from a tap, somehow. 

He was mostly just puttering around the garden to put off going inside, he realized, as he scooped up another mouthful. Summoning the dregs of his resolve, he dried his hand off on the work robes he was still wearing and started up the path to the church’s back steps. Those hadn’t changed either, and neither had the worn wooden doors, nor the yellowy magelights on either side of them. Mirk didn’t know why he’d expected them to: he’d practically just been there a few months ago, though he hadn’t had time then to ponder boyhood memories. It’d been a desperate situation. And so was the present one, albeit on a much more trivial scale. He ascended the steps quickly. A small part of him hoped that he’d find the doors locked. But they came open instead at the softest push. Mirk slipped inside.

The smell hit him first—incense, the kind used in the old-fashioned censors. The inside of the church was modest: the pews plain and wooden, the carpet up the center of the aisle leading to the altar fraying at the edges, the altar itself a simple stone affair, free of any gilt or marble or carvings. All the magelights hung about the ceiling were the same as the dim glass orbs hung outside the back doors. His grandfather had been particular about keeping a simple family chapel. A church, he’d always said, was no place for finery. All the gold in the king’s coffers couldn’t hide a blackened heart. 

Swallowing hard, he made his way up to the front of the church, to the altar. He reached in the front pocket of his robes and drew out his staff, the _family’s_ staff, shrunk down to the size of an unostentatious wand, like how he always kept it when it wasn’t in use. After banging on it a few times, it reverted to its normal length with a flicker of yellow-white magic that flowed over his hands, thick and warm and reassuring. It didn’t make him feel any better, not that evening. Mirk set it down in the groove at the front of the altar that was meant for it, backing away with head bowed.

The advice had been passed on in his family for generations, given with airy smiles and dismissive waves that belied the seriousness of it. _If you can’t make up your mind, go say the rosary at Nantes. That always makes everything clear._

He stopped his backtracking automatically beside the second pew on the right, genuflecting. He slid in to the far end of it. That had always been his spot. His mother had the one closest to the aisle, his father and sister with their great bulky wings and armor stuffed between them, him pressed up against the wall like an afterthought. Mirk had always felt warm there, safe. As a child, he couldn’t have thought of anything on Earth or in Heaven that could fight its way past his father if he was determined to fight. Or past his mother. She may have been human, small like him, all softness and embroidery and lace, but her will could dominate that of anyone who tried to threaten what was hers.

Mirk blinked a few times, trying to clear his head. He made himself focus not on his memories, but up on the altar, on the statue of the crucified Christ hung behind it. The church hadn’t been terribly useful the last time he’d come, and he’d been in serious need of aid then, searching for advice on how to lead an army he didn’t deserve into battle. It hadn’t sent anyone to come help him then, no ancient warrior ancestor to guide his way, nor his grandfather to reassure him that what he was doing was right. It had, at least, reminded him how to activate the magic on his father’s armor, which might have been more useful than even the best advice he could have been given, but that wasn’t exactly the point. The point was that he felt he was abusing it, using it for trivialities. But he was there now, the staff in its place and him in his, and there was little sense left in stopping. Biting his lip, Mirk pulled down the kneeler and slid onto his knees. Propping himself up on the back of the pew in front of his, he dug around in the sleeve of his robes for the rosary. 

The pew in front of his family’s had been his grandfather’s. He’d always sat near the middle, off to one side. Alone. But he still left room for _grandmère_ , as if he was only waiting for her, as if she’d be hurrying in shortly as Mass started, whispering apologies and shedding her coat and hat in an instant as she slid in beside him. 

Finally catching hold of the rosary, he pulled it out, clenched it in his hands, closed his eyes to the church and all its memories, and began to pray.

The Apostles Creed. Our Father. Hail Mary, again and once more. Glory Be to the Father. And then on through the Mysteries…

The Joyful Mysteries. The angel coming unto Mary, telling her that she’s to be the Mother of the Son of God. And she didn’t fear any of it, and she bore the Son, and yet she remained pure…

_You’ve given me the power of life, but I’ll give you no son, no daughter. I’ve ruined Your plans. You blessed us with life so that we could grow stronger and send out sentries to all the realms, to guard the Name and the Word. But I’ll give you no sentry. All You’ll get is me._

The Luminous Mysteries. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied. Blessed are they who suffer persecution for justice’s sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

My kingdom is not of this world.

_And what of me? What of those who have knowledge of sin but continue in it, unrepentant? What kingdom waits for me? The Abyss? I suppose that’s the right place for me. That’s his domain. I can have him, or I can have You, but not both together. You came to take away the sins of the world. But why would You make him suffer like this? Why would You put him with me, then tell me to keep away? To teach him a lesson? To try to cleanse him of his nature? To punish him for actions that aren’t really his own? Why would You offer him hope, then rip it away? Why would You make me choose between two impossibilities?_

The Sorrowful Mysteries. The Son is crucified before the Mother. 

Woman, behold your Son. Son, behold your Mother.

_Why? Why did You make me this way? Is it to teach me to bear suffering in patience, without complaint? Is it just the chaos of existence, like he always says? Why would You make such a man, make a backwards mess like me? And why would You make me a partner? He’s not Yours. He’ll never be Yours, no matter what you do to him. He only believes in himself, and in that only half the time. So why force him to be alone, on top of everything else? Why make him suffer? Why make_ me _suffer? Why teach me love and then forbid me from giving it?_

“Oh, _mon fils, mon coeur_. What are you doing here in the middle of the night worrying yourself sick? You should know better.”

Mirk hadn’t realized he’d been crying until a lace handkerchief was being run business-like over his cheeks to dry off his tears. That finished, a warm and sure arm closed about his shoulders. He raised his head and looked over.

“… _maman_?”

She was smiling like she always had, the confident, carefree smile of someone who knew her place in the world and delighted in it. Wearing her favorite blue dress, the one with the silver embroidery. Just as he remembered her. 

“You can’t let your face get all puffy from crying. So handsome! You must take after your mother.” She chuckled to herself, reaching over with her free hand to teasingly pinch at his cheek. 

“What…”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You know how this works. I’m obviously the best one to counsel you in these matters, aren’t I? But really, I can’t understand one bit of it, _mon petit_. What reason do you have to spend your night crying here? What question could you possibly have?”

“I…I’m…”

“You really should be at home with that beau of yours, you know. He’s never learned to take care of himself, though I’m sure you’ve tried to teach him. Men! So many of them are just completely helpless, aren’t they?”

Mirk could feel himself flushing in embarrassment. “I…well, yes. You’re right.”

“Of course I am!” She drew in a deep breath, practically radiating contentment as she looked him over again, nudging his face this way and that to better admire him. “You’ve done so well for yourself, Mirk! A whole division that answers to you, two dozen new families provided for, the accounts overflowing, and now your very own commander? _Quelle chance!_ ”

Mirk ducked his head away, unable to keep bearing witness to her happiness. “I…methinks that’s a bit much…”

“Really? Now, that comes as a surprise to me. I thought things were coming along quite nicely…though you do have to teach him some manners, _mon coeur_ , and you _must_ do something about those terrible clothes. Your father was the exact same way. Uniform this, armor that—”

“Is that really the problem, _maman_?” Mirk cut in, shaking his head. “He’s…well.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “English, I know. But it wouldn’t really be fair to hold that against him, _non?_ ”

“He’s…a man.”

“Yes? I can tell them apart, Mirk, despite the way women have started to dress. Breeches on a lady! _Incroyable!_ Who’d trade a lovely dress for some frumpy breeches? Honestly, this world—”

“It’s not _right_ ,” he spat out, turning away again, suddenly struck by the urge to worm out of her grasp. “I…I was supposed to find a woman.”

She didn’t miss a beat, sliding a hand under his chin and propping his face back up so that she could look him in the eye. “And I was supposed to marry some stuffy old marquis from Alsace. He had a _beard_ , even. Thank God for your father. He couldn’t grow one if he tried.”

Despite his continued worry, he found the tension flowing out of him, leaving him nestled snug against her side, one arm reflexively creeping upwards to embrace her in return. It was one of his tricks, one of the tricks he’d learned from her. A person stopped being upset if you talked at them the right way, kept your tone even and warm, laced your words with hints of admiration and praise. “It’s not the same, _maman_.”

“ _Non?_ I think it’s exactly the same, _mon coeur_. The world tries to put you with someone who’s all wrong, then God sets things right.”

“I…I don’t think God has anything to do with it. With me. Not anymore.”

“How could you say that? Listen. Be honest with yourself. Do you love him?”

The response tumbled out of him before he could think about it. “Of course.”

“All the way down? With all your heart?”

“Yes.”

“And have you ever loved anyone else like that?”

“Well…no.”

“And could you ever imagine loving anyone more?”

Slowly, Mirk shook his head. “No. There’s…there’s only him. There’s only ever been him.”

“Then there can’t be anything wrong with it. You were made exactly how He wanted you to be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s fine. God’s will isn’t for us to understand. That’s why it’s called faith, _mon fils_. If you do what you know is right, what’s true in your heart, then it’s His will. Whether anyone else agrees with it or not.”

“But—”

“Come! We went through this just now! Do you love him? Without any doubt?”

“…yes.”

“Then it’s perfect. We Avignons, no one ever fools us. We always see right.”

“I still…I just…don’t understand.”

“Faith, Mirk. You must have faith. If there wasn’t any needed, then everything would be terribly dull, don’t you think?”

Mirk gave in and nodded. He couldn’t come up with any more protests. None that would sway her, in any case. When his mother believed she was right, she was unshakable. Instead of protesting further, he kept silent and leaned against her, listening to the reassuring sound of her breathing. He closed his eyes.

“…Mirk.”

Gasping, suddenly aware of a horrible cramping in his stomach, Mirk woke up. He’d fallen unconscious while reciting the rosary, slumping down over the back of the pew he’d been kneeling in front of. Wincing, he eased off his knees and back onto the pew behind him, prodding at his midsection.

“…oh…it worked…”

“What is…this about?”

Only then did he fully process who was talking to him—not another envoy from the past, but Genesis, who was standing in the aisle at the end of the pew Mirk was sitting in, arms folded defensively against the church’s ancient, order-based magic, frowning. Despite the sourness of the look being directed at him, Mirk began to laugh.

“Of course it’s you…it’d have to be…”

“You’re not making sense,” Genesis said.

“Never mind, _messire_. I haven’t caused you any trouble, have I? Really, I should have left a note, methinks it—”

Genesis cut him off with a curt wave of his hand. “I had business with K’aekniv. There’s been some…incidents in the…region of the Lena. There may be…some Imperial holdouts.”

Hauling himself to his feet, trying to shake the stiffness out of his limbs, Mirk nodded. “That sounds serious.”

“It will…be managed in short order.”

Mirk found himself smiling as he shuffled out of the pew, turning it on Genesis as soon as he was back in the aisle. The commander returned it by deepening his frown. “Yes, it will be, won’t it? So strong, so cunning…”

As Genesis grumbled to himself, Mirk sidestepped around him and went to the altar again, kneeling before it and crossing himself before reaching out and taking the staff of life from it. With a twirl and a tap it was back to its normal size, then quickly secreted away in the sleeve of his robes along with the rosary. Regaining his feet, pulling himself up to his full height despite the wave of fatigue that was suddenly overtaking him, he turned back to Genesis. Genesis who was glaring around suspiciously into the corners of the church, as if he expected some sort of revenant martyr or avenging angel to hurtle out of one of them and come at him with sword drawn.

“Are you...through with your…papist rituals?”

Mirk nodded as he returned to his side, unable to keep from grinning at the way Genesis was eying him with suspicion. “It’s not nice to call people papists, Gen.”

“…nevertheless.”

The church must have drained off at least a quarter of his magic to enable his mother to manifest—the longer he stood, the weaker his legs became. Mirk took hold of one of Genesis’s arms for support, laughing to himself at the way Genesis sighed as he obligingly uncrossed them to allow Mirk to get a better grip.

“Yes, I am. Methinks I’d best be going home. If you’re not still busy?”

“No. I’ve…had enough of that business for one evening.”

“Good. I’d have been disappointed if you had to go rushing off again…” Mirk switched his hold on him, wrapping an arm around Genesis’s slim frame and leaning against him. He was the antithesis of his mother—bony and tall, smelling of gunpowder and faintly of lilies—but Mirk felt just as comforted when he pressed against him. 

“Is…that so?” Genesis asked. Though he reacted as he always did when someone touched him without warning, his body growing rigid and tense, he still put a careful hand on Mirk’s shoulder in return.

“Mmhmm. I’ve had a long day, _messire_. I could do with some company.” Not that sort of company, Mirk thought, not yet. He was too tired. He really wanted to appreciate that. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t find other ways to be close…

Genesis sighed, resigned to his fate, apparently, as he began guiding him out down the aisle, in the direction of the back doors. “As…I expected.”

Mirk laughed. “Maybe you’re getting the hang of things after all.”

“…right.” 

\- - -

Again, Genesis was faced with the daunting expanse of the fifth-floor hallway stretching out before him. That evening, however, the House wasn’t playing any tricks. He could sense Mirk’s room from the landing, just like he always could when things were settled, fifteen doors down on the left. Rather than finding it all reassuring, he found it particularly ominous.

Genesis had expected that Mirk would haul him off to the couch in the living room, that he would shake off his sleepiness at the sight of it and assail him with his usual evening affections. Instead, Mirk had let Genesis guide him past it and up the stairs without complaint. Without speaking at all, as a matter of fact—instead, he continued to lean companionably against his side as they walked, body both clinging and pliant, like it always was when Mirk was already half-asleep.

Mirk had to say something soon, Genesis thought. He was never quiet for long. In preparation, he tried to think of what it might be—a request to wait for him before going to the City of Glass in the morning? Or just one of his usual rambling good nights, full of traditional tidings of good health and pleasant dreams? The walk to Mirk’s door was far too short for him to consider all the possibilities. Bracing himself against the unknown, he turned to face Mirk, as he felt the healer let go of him.

He’d expected to see Mirk still standing close by, looking up at him with that glowing, sentimental expression he made late at night that always made Genesis feel rather ill-at-ease. No one should look at him like that. But instead, Mirk had shuffled to his door without pause, already magicking it open. “Wait here, _messire_. Please? I’ll only be a moment.” 

“I…”

Mirk didn’t wait for a response, ducking inside the room as soon as the door popped open, shutting it again behind himself. Genesis stared at the dark wood, at the glass knob, frowning.

“…fine.”

The room was spelled with every protection and silencing charm Genesis knew. Still, if he reached out to the House’s magic, he could hear a bit of what was going on inside. There was the sound of rustling fabric, of things being tossed about and dropped on the floor. The muted whining of his Hellhound, Tournesol. Mirk cooing back at it, reassuring. For once, Mirk had meant what he said about only being a moment. He resurfaced after a few minutes, still talking at the dog over one shoulder as he shut the door. 

He had changed. Instead of his specious healer’s robes and protective white laboratory coat, Mirk was now wearing one of his appalling dressing gowns. Pink, with silver stars. He had a fat pillow under one arm, its case striped green and yellow and smattered with tiny white flowers. He returned to his side and wrapped his other arm back around his midsection, as if the sudden change was as ordinary and expected as putting on one’s overcoat before going out. 

Genesis was at a loss for words.

“What?” Mirk asked, prodding him in the ribs.

He craned his neck to look down at him. Mirk was smiling up at him, breezily unconcerned. “You…”

“Do you want me to stay here?”

“…no.”

“ _Donc, on y va_. I could fall asleep on my feet, honestly…”

Genesis began walking again, robotically. Mirk shuffled along beside him, having to hurry a bit to keep up. He was wearing slippers too, Genesis noticed. They had grinning cat faces on them. As they approached the door to his room, Genesis made another effort at extracting the meaning of this display from him. “You…wish to…sleep…”

Before he could sort out the safest way to end the phrase, with the least sexual connotations, Mirk finished it for him. “In your bed, yes. You know, I’ve always thought it was a little silly for you to have such a big bed. You really don’t take up that much space.” 

“It is…the only kind long enough,” Genesis replied, slowly, as he reached up and disengaged the spells on the door. Once they were released, the door creaked open on its own, the room beyond pitch black, just as he liked it.

“ _Tiens_ , turn on a light for a little, Gen. Or else I’ll end up tripping all over your things.”

He waved on the magelight lamp on the nightstand, watching with mingled fascination and horror as Mirk continued on inside as if it was his own bedroom, taking naught but a cursory look around before tossing his pillow on the nearer side of the bed that took up a full third of the room. Mirk paused then, humming to himself, pensively. “You probably have a side you like better, don’t you? Which is it?”

It was as if he was sleepwalking, or stumbling around in the shell-shocked daze that came over him when his Destroyer half released him and he got his first look at the damage he’d done while he’d been in that other, black and white place. Genesis followed him in, shutting and locking the door before addressing Mirk’s question. “I…sleep in the middle. Why would I…do anything else?”

“Hmm. Which side do you want me on, then? There’s plenty of room on either.” 

The question momentarily cleared away his confusion, as he rapidly began to consider his options. To his left would mean putting himself between Mirk and the door, which was, on the surface, safer, but if he compared the spells on the windows to those on the door, he had to admit that he’d spent much more time perfecting the door’s magic, which meant, contrary to logic, it’d be better for Mirk to stay on the right. It seemed as if tradition would dictate the right side as well, considering that it was his weaker hand, and it would be offensive to put someone trusted enough to sleep in the same bed as him to his left, then, though he doubted Mirk really—

“You can sort it out later if it’s too much bother for right now. I don’t mind changing. But this side’s closest…”

Without further ado, Mirk toed off the slippers—he made an effort at putting them properly beside the bed, though the left one ended up mostly under it—and tugged off the dressing gown. Underneath it, he was wearing one of his equally appalling nightshirts. Bright blue. With dolphins. He began to throw it off toward the end of the bed, but stopped short of it, turning back around to face him, holding the dressing gown out to him. “I should probably just let you handle this too, _non_? I’d put it on the bedpost, but that’d probably bother you all night.”

He took the robe from him, holding it with the barest tips of his fingers. Who knew when he’d last washed it? _If_ he’d ever washed it, even? His annoyance at it all, at the slippers and the dressing gown and the damn nightshirt was slowly forcing him out of his confusion. The way Mirk pushed the covers on the bed back without first properly separating the duvet from the blanket, or the blanket from the sheets, was enough to knock him fully out of it. His gaze fixed again on the horrible nightshirt as Mirk hopped up into the bed. The thought of whether or not he bothered to wear anything under it crossed his mind, but he tried to ignore it.

“That shirt…”

“Yes?” Mirk asked, looking back over at him.

“…is hideous.”

Mirk laughed, squeezing and tossing his pillow a few times before putting it at the head of the bed, on top of his own, new, perfectly clean and sensibly firm ones. “It was the first one I saw! What? Would you rather I didn’t wear it? It’s a little late in the year to be sleeping naked, but—”

“No.”

Mirk laughed harder, flopping onto his back and swinging his legs onto the bed. He wriggled his toes a bit. His feet were nowhere near the end of the bed. “I thought so. I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with it for one night, _messire_.”

…which only made him think, for a moment, about what Mirk planned on inflicting on him tomorrow night. And the night after that. And after that…

Genesis sighed. “I doubt you’ll…listen to reasonable thoughts on the matter.”

Nodding, Mirk turned over onto his side, pulling the blankets up to his chin. “Yes, you’re probably right. I’d forgotten how nice this bed is. It’s like being in a hotel.”

He didn’t have to think about where to put the dressing gown, not really. Genesis went to the end of the room, to the closet beside the fireplace, opened it, and hung it on one of the hooks on the inside of the door, in line with his own housecoat. After a moment, he pulled off his greatcoat and hung it up on its own hook beside them.

Seeing the dressing gown hanging there, a splash of color and disorder in a sea of neatness and black, finally brought all of it down on him. Genesis went back to the bed, to where Mirk was settling in, easily, without a hint of visible discomfort or hesitation. Like that was the place he belonged in, just like everything else in the room was in its own perfectly calculated spot.

“What?” Mirk asked, without opening his eyes. “Is it too much?”

Genesis could feel his frown lifting as he stared down at Mirk, at how content he looked. Content enough that even he could almost feel it, though Genesis knew it had to be an illusion. Empathy had never worked on him. “No. It’s only…sudden.”

He opened his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Genesis.”

“There’s no need.” Looking him over once more, Genesis stooped down and pressed a chaste kiss to his temple. A poor show of approval, but one nevertheless. “It…was most likely…for the best.”

“Good.”

Before he could straighten up again, Mirk caught hold of his neck, summoning up that uncanny quickness of his in spite of his fatigue, and gave him a smack of a kiss in return, on the lips. 

“ _Dormez bien, messire_.” As he said the words, his arm slipped off of him.

“I…”

Genesis hesitated. What was there to say? And how was he to say it? Was he to use the same goodnight he did when leaving him outside his bedroom door? Or was he to wish him the same in return, or be honest and assert the plain fact that he never slept well? By the time he’d settled on something, Mirk had fallen asleep. 

He’d always been able to do that. Those with a clear conscious always slept easy. 

Shaking his head, Genesis pulled the blankets up over him properly, straightening out the layers and tucking them back in.

“I shall…make an attempt.”


	5. The Perplexities of Human Sexuality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genesis finally manages to find the nerve to pull the trigger, as it were. All it takes is another whack over the head by K'aekniv, the advice of a shady romance novel, and Mirk finally having enough of waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Finally done! Sorry to leave this unfinished for so long, guys, school sort of ate my soul. T___T

“ _What?_ ”

K'aekniv shoved the angelic sentry's twitching body off his swordpoints, ignoring his moaning and pleading, his ire now focused entirely on Genesis instead. “Holy Mother, are you stupid? You _can't_ be that stupid!”

Genesis frowned, watching the wounded angel begin to drag himself back toward his camp. Despite the sizable hole in his midsection, the angel was far from dead. Once he had enough order-based light magic shoved back into him, the sentry would be on his feet again and ready to fight. Along with the rest of his flight, who would no doubt be in a sour mood from needing to stop up the holes in their fellow's stomach for the fifth time that week. “Now...is not the time. K'aekniv.”

K'aekniv cursed, storming over to him and smacking at his chest with the flat of one of his gargantuan longswords. Genesis narrowly avoided it, concerned less with the strike than by the blood still coating the blade. “No! It's time for you to _listen_ , damn you!”

Genesis dismissed him, craning his neck to see around the Russian's oversized wings—the sentry had nearly managed to claw his way back up to the path K'aekniv had beat him off of, the bloodstain that trailed behind him already growing narrower and lighter. Genesis dodged around K'aekniv, darting into the gloom off to his left. Time was on his side: the dawn was still hours off and the dingy glow from the half-angel's wings cast plenty of shadows for him to move through. But before he could sink fully into them, K'aekniv cut him off, dropping one sword as he hurled himself around and grabbed hold of him with his right arm. A shower of white sparks cascaded off of it, its ordered magic keeping Genesis from escaping.

“Let...me...go...” Genesis hissed through gritted teeth, trying to jerk his way out of K'aekniv's hold. He threw an elbow backwards, connecting with the half-angel's ribcage. It was like hitting a brick wall. Useless. 

“Fuck you! Not until you tell me why, you cold bitch!”

Sighing, Genesis forced himself to stand still and watch as the angelic sentry continued to crawl away. If the angel got back to his flight before they could stop him, at least it'd give him more targets to vent his frustration on, he supposed. “...fine.”

“'So?”

“So...what?”

K'aekniv shook him, hard. “You're crazy! Crazy! What kind of man keeps another in his bed and won't sex him, huh?”

“A man....who doesn't feel the need to...insert himself...into anything that comes close enough,” Genesis replied, dryly.

“You know what I mean! Answer my question!” K'aekniv scolded, shaking him again, harder. For a moment, Genesis saw spots and stars.

“Why...do you care?”

With a huff of a sigh, K'aekniv shifted his hold on him, dropping his other sword without a second thought, spinning Genesis around to face him and seizing him by both shoulders. That time, Genesis didn't try to fight it. Best to save his energy for the inevitable angelic onslaught that would be brought about by K'aekniv's willingness to prioritize Genesis's private life over his own bodily integrity. “Because! Mirk deserves better!”'

He'd jumped straight to the proper name. K'aekniv had to be serious, despite the absurdity of the situation. “It has been...complicated.”

“ _Complicated?_ What, do I have to draw you a picture? You put your dick in—”

“It's not that,” Genesis growled, trying to take a step backward. K'aekniv's hold on him was unrelenting. When the half-angel refused to answer him, Genesis continued, choosing his words with as much care as possible, considering the situation. “Things have been...hectic.”

K'aekniv rolled his eyes, shaking him again. “You can't be serious!”

“How long have we been pursuing this flight?” Genesis shot back, pointedly. “Three weeks, two days. I realize this is...immaterial to you. As it should be. The...worth of retrieving the dissenters from them is nearly...incalculable. A Host second...and his personal guard...that would make everything at the Lena worthwhile. However, as I'm certain you...understand...this has meant considerable amounts of time and...strength...have been consumed by this task. Perhaps you can run on like a madman for fourteen hours daily without rest. I prefer not to. Operating while exhausted will only make me destroy the lot of the dissenters...instead of escorting them back to the City.”

The half-angel's hold on him slackened, just a bit. “Fine. You have a point. But what does that have to do with the rest?”

Everything. It had everything to do with it, with his careful plans and intricate countermeasures, his research and his precautions. The Destroyer had been in him for the whole of his life. Over the centuries, he'd learned how best to avoid mistakes, how to keep the monster inside him instead of allowing it to escape unplanned without the restraint of his reason and logic. Genesis knew what happened when his emotions got out of control. Chaos. Sometimes nothing...sometimes a few dead...sometimes a whole city turned to dust. Even worse, things had changed ever since Gabriel had vanished during the battle of the Lena, dragged off into the woods by his general, Iea, untraceable despite the best efforts of the Empire and the K'maneda both.

The binding runes had been with him for nearly his whole life as well, a constant chafing at the back of his mind, an annoying calculation that needed to be added into all his spells and constructs. Always making his forearms itch, maddeningly, always prickling and buzzing the worst when he was trying to get to sleep. They didn't bind him completely, not even close to it. Not even Gabriel and Emmanuel and all the great minds of the Empire of Heaven could come up with a binding spell fit to completely control a Destroyer. But they were enough. Enough to make the Destroyer cautious. Enough to make _him_ cautious. 

Now there was hardly any strength in them. Genesis barely had to think of them, never even bothered compensating for them when he fought anymore. But instead of making him glad, it all made him very nervous. What new things could spur the Destroyer to force its way out of him? Would the emotions released by a process as involved and intense as the one he was currently being berated for not pursuing doggedly enough be sufficient to trigger it, to awaken it? And to what effect? 

Genesis had been relatively certain he could handle whatever happened with it when he was fresh, in full control of his faculties. But now that he'd been fighting for so long...on top of the stress of sleeping beside Mirk nearly every night, knowing that he was making incorrect decisions during some part of the process, but unable to sort out how to correct them...

He couldn't be certain that the Destroyer wouldn't destroy Mirk too, if it got the chance.

Genesis finally forced the words out through clenched teeth. “I...would rather not...have that...happen...when I am tired.” Genesis paused, then added the last of it: if anyone would understand his concerns, K'aekniv would be the one, as much as he resented that fact. “I have not...come this far, only to destroy him by being impatient.”

K'aekniv let him go for a moment, only to drape an arm over his shoulders the next. “Ah, I see. Why didn't you say so, Genesis? This, I understand. Hell, I've had to beat that bastard off while you've been sleeping enough times to know all his tricks! You're still being stupid, I think, but I see why.”'

Frowning, he made an attempt at shrugging off the Russian's arm. It only made K'aekniv lean more heavily on him. “Are you...satisfied, then?”

“No! First, we will make sure you have no excuses left. Look!” K'aekniv laughed, gesturing off at the path that eventually led to where the sentry's flightmates had made camp. The sentry who, apparently, had been successfully revived, the hole in his stomach gone, now flanked on either side by two more angels as he stormed up the path in their direction. The angels, to the best of Genesis's ability to read their expressions, seemed to be more annoyed than intimidated by their continued presence out in the woods. “Those should be enough to wear it down, eh? I'll even let you kill all of them! So don't say I never did anything nice for you, Genesis.”

“I...see,” Genesis said, slowly, as he plunged one hand into the gloom, retrieving his sword from the Abyss. He hated to let K'aekniv slack off. But, for once, it seemed like the half-angel was doing it altruistically rather than to avoid having to work. That aside, the fact that K'aekniv was stubbornly refusing to take his arm off his shoulders, even as the angels shifted into formation and headed out into the woods to meet them, was making Genesis approach a terminal degree of annoyance.

“You should! I'm always right, you know.”

Grumbling curses to himself, Genesis forced his way out from under K'aekniv's arm. 

As much as he resented it, K'aekniv was right: destroying a few angels was really the only thing he could think of that stood any chance of lightening his dismal mood.

\- - -

It was the last thing that Genesis was expecting.

They had fallen into a pattern, somewhat: whenever Genesis made it back to his room (their, it was their room now, despite the fact that nearly everything in it of any value was technically his) after Mirk did, he would always enter to find Mirk already abed, buried up to his ears in blankets and quilts and reading something dreadful. At that juncture, Mirk would cast aside the book and ask him if he was all right, if there was anything he should be anticipating for the morning's shifts, if such-and-such or so-and-so was going well. All the while, he'd be sitting up and watching him with an unsettling intensity as Genesis attempted to shut himself far enough in the closet to change his clothes without being entirely exposed. It was a futile task, he knew—and Mirk had even told him as much, repeatedly—but some things just had to be done. On principle, at least. 

That evening, things were substantially amiss. 

Though Mirk had arrived before he had, he wasn't in bed—he was actually _dressed_ , dressed in the sort of ensemble that it always troubled Genesis to see him in. Instead of worn-out robes or any of his multi-colored sweaters or plaid trousers, he was wearing _the_ clothes: exactly tailored, pressed and starched, tastefully coordinated and ghastly expensive. The clothes that he only wore when one of his terrible family members were in trouble, or when the wrong group of mages had ignored one too many of his polite but threatening letters. His _nice_ clothes. The clothes he wore when he meant business. 

“What? _What?_ I _told_ him not to go there!”

Mirk was pouring rapid-fire French admonitions into one of the multitude of slim black boxes that contemporary mortals used to communicate with each other—some kind of phone or pager or intercom, not at all similar to the sensible rune-plates used by practical magicians. Mirk was so distracted by the response to his questioning that he nearly walked past Genesis without noticing him, slinging a bag (not the specious green and yellow tote he favored on ordinary occasions, but the _good_ bag, the one where all the potions in it were definitely lethal, aside from the pain blockers, which were high-grade and much more ominous than even the cyanide and foxglove) over one shoulder as he wedged the communication device between the other shoulder and his ear, reaching out to open a door that was already ajar. Mirk finally noticed him then, giving a startled laugh and fixing a smile on his face that even Genesis could tell was mostly feigned. 

“Oh, no, no, don't worry, Yvette! I'm coming! Yes, honest, I'll be there in five minutes. No, don't call the guard. I'll take care of it. There's no sense in making a scene...right...yes...all right...what? They've got _werewolves_? Ah, fine, I'll bring Sol and he'll sort them out...no, no, it's all right. Calm down. I'll be right there! Okay? Okay.” With a tisk and a disapproving shake of his head, Mirk did something to the box, something that made the muffled voice coming from it go silent, and tossed it with a bit of annoyance into his bag before settling it on his shoulder again.

“Oh...Gen, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there in the dark...”

Genesis searched for something diplomatic to say, something concerned enough but not so concerned that Mirk decided to drag him into whatever mess his family had gotten itself into. “You seem...troubled.”

The healer waved him off with a laugh and a shake of his head. “Oh, it's nothing, really. Just a little problem that dear Étienne needs me to take care of...nephews, I swear...”

“I...see.”

“Don't worry about it, _messire_. I'll see you in the morning, _non_? Try to get some sleep, dear, you look tired.” 

Before Genesis could give a proper reply, Mirk was giving him a reassuring pat on the arm and sidestepping past him and out the door, vanishing down the fifth floor hallway with a muttered bit of grandmotherly invective. The last Genesis saw of him, before he ducked into what had been his bedroom mere days ago, was the tell-tale flash of yellowy white magic that his staff made when he magicked it up into the length most amenable for beating people with. Shaking his head, Genesis retreated back into his room, shutting the door, noting with a bit of approval that it locked itself after him.

It was an unsettling feeling—Genesis had spent the last half hour pacing about in the front hall, mulling over his plan of attack. K'aekniv's suggestion had been more helpful than usual. The three angels that he'd reduced to dust and feathers had been just enough to make him feel certain that the Destroyer had had his fill for the evening, but not so much that he felt so drained and tired that the idea of venturing down into the confused morass of gestures and emotions of love was too much for him. Finding himself suddenly faced with an empty bedroom felt almost like the world had been pulled out from under him, like he'd been spun around in circles, blindfolded, until he didn't know which way was up. 

He'd been _prepared_. For once, he'd felt halfway confident. And for what? 

Really, he should have been expecting it. That was the sort of luck he'd always had—the more he prepared for something, the more caution he took, the worse things went. The universal chaos did not like to be juked, especially by a Destroyer. Which left him with...

An empty bed, a quiet room, a cold hearth. Nothing to do but lie down and try to sleep. Cursing to himself under his breath in _c'ayetnak_ , Genesis shook his head and attempted to resume his more traditional bedtime rituals. 

First, remove the weapons. Sword, gunbelts, knives. All seven of them. Then the coat, given a cursory once-over and then hung neatly on the inside of the closet door. Then the boots, which he could once again sit down properly to take off, seeing as how there wasn't an expectant healer in his bed watching his every move. Rather than moving directly into the involved process of unlacing and unbuckling them, Genesis sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and attempted to compose his thoughts.

He should have been relieved. Mirk being gone meant that he had more time to prepare...whatever that meant. If he'd been unable to find any definitive answer to the endless stream of questions that his subconscious had hissed at him over the course of last three months he'd spent embroiled in the strange complexities of intimate relations, he doubted that they'd suddenly come to him that evening. Ultimately, he'd found himself clinging miserably to the only advice that remotely made sense, advice that had, horror of horrors, come from K'aekniv, of all people: _be yourself._

Sighing, Genesis looked around the bedroom again, making silent note of all the tiny things in it that had changed over the course of the week since Mirk had started sharing it with him. The clothes in the closet were no longer uniformly black; the shoes on its floor were crooked and altogether too numerous for his liking. A record player had found its way onto his dresser, and stacked beside it were the sort of sentimental albums that one heard around the holidays and during romantic movies meant for either the hopelessly in love or the hopelessly alone. His books, which were meticulously organized by subject, author, and initial publication date, were now sharing their proper shelves with interloping paperbacks of questionable origin. Paperbacks with titles that made him feel a sort of reflexive annoyance: _Moonlit Promises, The Prince's Secret, Illicit Desires, My Love the Demon Viscount_...was there such a thing as a viscount anymore, in their present semi-democratic age? It made it all lack a certain verisimilitude. Then again, he supposed that wasn't exactly the point of that manner of fiction. Shaking his head, Genesis bent down and began undoing the topmost set of buckles.

...novels...no, worse, _romance_ novels, on _his_ bookshelves...perhaps Mirk wouldn't notice if he destroyed the worst of them...he couldn't begin to understand what amusement the man got out of them...

Drawing in a sharp breath, Genesis sat up. 

It felt foolish. It felt stupid. It felt like he was a boy again, rummaging through Comrade Senkov's grimoire collection in search of some arcane and doubtlessly forbidden spell that would make a particularly annoying classmate spontaneously dismember in a particularly messy and painful way. Still, it was his last, his _only_ hope of understanding.

Genesis stood and approached the bookshelf with caution. Which one to choose? He certainly wasn't going to read through all of the novels; there were dozens of them. Frowning, Genesis looked the lot of them over. Repeatedly, his eyes were drawn to the absurd one about the viscount. Initially, he thought it was sheer annoyance that was making him look to it. Then he realized, with a sinking feeling of resignation, that it was the most dogeared and creased of all the books. Using the barest tips of his fingers, he plucked it off the shelf. 

If there was any way to find out exactly what Mirk expected out of a romantic partner without asking the man directly, going to the presumed source of his preferred fantasies was the most logical course of action. The most _uncomfortable_ one. But it was better to know and be done with it than being subjected to having it explained to him as if he was some kind of idiot.

He wasn't entirely certain why he felt the compulsion to do it: before subjecting himself to the book, he changed into his nightclothes and waved off the magelights. It didn't feel right, somehow, looking through that kind of thing while properly dressed and in the full light of the bedside lamp. He'd at least take it sitting up, though—rather than getting into bed, he sat down beside it, his preferred armchair appearing out of the shadows behind him to catch him. 

The cover was even worse than the title, somehow. There were roses on it. And a mysterious sort of vague, wooded background. And a man, from the collarbones down. Shirtless, of course. But still wearing some manner of ducal coat or jacket. It had medals on it. It made a wave of dread wash over him. 

_My Love the Demon Viscount_. By Alexandra Duchamps. 

...French, even. Horrendous. 

He held the book by the spine, allowing it to fall open. Presumably, to the reader's favored scene. Chapter fifteen. Less ominous, he supposed, but in that territory, nowhere was truly safe. Steeling himself for the inevitable flowery prose, Genesis began to read.

A man, a certain Miles, who he could only assume to be some associate of the titular viscount, was being held against his will by a band of roughs in the employ of a sinister marquis, or some other kind of half-hearted attempt at a period villain. Genesis was slightly relieved. Perhaps someone would get stabbed. Hopefully it'd be Miles.

Miles was tied, with great ceremony and fuss, to a tree. The roughs armed themselves with bows. Evidently, they planned to dispose of him via the Saint Sebastian route. Curious. Not the sort of typical peril one would anticipate a viscount's secretary or accountant or whatever to be in. Before the execution, the mastermind of the plot appeared, a prince by the name of Alistair. That, Genesis could see being the name of someone terrible. The only Alistair he'd ever known had been a miserable bastard. He'd had to cut off both his legs before he would die properly. 

Miles delivered a tearful and touching speech about never submitting to the unwanted advances of Prince Alistair. Before the man's speech could reach its climax, just before he invoked the name of the only one worthy of holding his (doubtlessly pure) heart, there was a sudden gunshot from off in the suitably gloomy woods in which the scene was situated. 

The viscount had arrived.

What followed was, in Genesis's opinion, a rather exhausting description of said viscount: tall, dark, dashing, roguish, dark-clad, fanged. Thus the demon bit, apparently. A fight ensued, which was both sloppily described and improbable. Pinpoint shooting with an early nineteenth century firearm was involved. (Genesis had tried that before, on the insistence of a man from the advanced weaponry department. He'd ultimately ended up bludgeoning his target to death with the rifle instead of shooting him with it.) Of course, the demon viscount emerged victorious, claiming the lives of an impossible number of henchmen, yet somehow allowing Prince Alistair to escape, undoubtedly so that he could appear in a second novel if the first was profitable enough. 

Genesis knew it had to be coming. Logically, a romance novel would include, to some degree, the standard elements of Earth-based courtship rituals. He thought he'd been prepared for it.

He wasn't.

The viscount, triumphant, claimed his prize by cutting the ropes that bound Miles to the tree with a set of hooked claws that conveniently appeared and disappeared at his bidding. Genesis scoffed. That sort of trick could only be accomplished by means of an exceptionally temperamental bit of magecraft, one that involved collecting eyeless beasts from five different realms, killing them, taking out their claws, grinding said claws into a powder, and consuming said powder in a mixture of one's own blood and the blood of a skilled illusionist. He would know. He'd done it over the course of a miserably long seaside vacation while he'd still been young enough to be in Senkov's care. Genesis also knew that he was only attempting to delay the inevitable by critiquing the authoress's flawed knowledge of demonic anatomy, but there were some notions that were too uncomfortable to be approached directly. 

Then there were the things simply too awful to be ignored. Such as the passage that followed the demon viscount's scooping the unappealingly helpless Miles up into his arms. 

_“Oh, sir,” Miles whispered breathlessly, “you've done me such a kindness. I could never repay you.”_

Even _he_ could tell what the damn viscount was going to say to that. And he only had a passing knowledge of the romantic conventions.

_“There is one thing, Miles...”_

_“What is it? Anything, sir, anything at all!”_

_The viscount flashed Miles a grin that made his stomach turn itself into knots. “Why don't you finish your speech, hmm? Who's the only one who can have your heart?”_

_It came out of him in a rush of words, words far more passionate than he'd intended. “You! It's always been you! Ever since I was a boy, sir, ever since you saved me from the gallows, it's only been you!”_

_“And ever since then, dear Miles,” Gerard_

“Gerard,” Genesis muttered to himself, crossly, as he flipped the page. “What...sort of...lunatic calls himself _Gerard_...hmph...not believable in the slightest...”'

_said, laying a cool, delicate hand on Miles's burning cheek, “I've only wanted you.”_

_Before Miles could respond, the viscount had drawn him up tight against his chest, ducked his head and kissed him. His lips were soft, barely warmer than the hand on his face, but they sent a heady rush of heat and desire coursing through Miles's body. As suddenly as the lips were there, they were pulling back. But they only strayed a hair's breadth away, Gerard's voice so close it made Miles shiver. “So if you would just stop calling me sir, I think we'll come out of this about even.”_

There was a scene break. Genesis hoped it was over, hoped the story would leap to a more sensible scene, like one of the two men attending to the carpet of dead henchmen around them before the authorities arrived. It didn't.

Instead, the story was shifted instantly indoors,with only a few cursory sentences devoted first to explaining how the pair got from the woods to some sort of palatial manor that Genesis supposed had been described in torturous detail earlier in the novel. In short order, the narrator had the pair in a bedroom. _On_ a bed as well, within another paragraph. Said bed, he noted with distaste, had satin sheets. Blood red. It was so overwrought he nearly slapped the book shut. Only the dire nature of his present situation was enough to stay his hand and force him onward.

The whole mess annoyed him, really, but not for the reasons it should have: rather than being particularly bothered by the tactless viscount cramming his tongue down his assistant's throat, Genesis was more preoccupied by the pair's footwear. He backtracked a paragraph, reading more carefully. Yes, shoes and boots were kicked off (and how was that possible, even? He distinctly recalled the footwear of the nineteenth century being even more of a bother to get out of than those that fashionable mages favored in the present), but no mention at all was made of stockings. Did that mean it was traditional for sexual relations to take place without removing one's socks? The thought of it made him cringe. He hated socks as it was—slippery, useless, no good for climbing or kicking or jumping; as far as he was concerned, it was boots or nothing—the thought of having their presence nagging at him throughout the entire process was appalling. Tradition or not, he'd already decided against it.

Genesis paused. Was this what K'aekniv had meant by “being himself”? Modifying the customary practices in certain small ways to better suit his personal opinions? Genesis flipped through the next few pages, weighing the notion in his mind. The authoress didn't seem concerned with the socks—maybe they vanished, maybe they didn't, but either way, they weren't important enough to mention. But they were important to him. Details were always important. Perhaps, then, what he needed to do was focus on what portions of the process were left out? Which ones he could, in all probability, dictate himself? Genesis thought for a moment about fetching a notepad.

He sighed. No. No, he was attempting to escape it again, trying to avoid having to think about the part that bothered him the most about it by focusing on minutiae. He wasn't investigating the novel for his own sake. He was doing it for _him_ , and _he_ didn't give a damn about linens and socks and how smoky candles had been two hundred years ago. Mirk never had bothered with technicalities, though he made the odd attempt, when he noticed Genesis was watching. Even his spells weren't technically possible—he didn't cast from grimoires or charts, he cast them with _feeling_ , with pain and joy and fury. He made his potions from plants he found walking here and there, plants that “sounded” helpful, according to him, even if they were only handfuls of grass and thistle. He didn't weigh his powders and he didn't speak his Latin or his English properly, and yet, and yet...

His magic always worked. Because all the earth listened to him when he spoke, and it never hesitated to come to his aid when he needed it, just like he was always ready to help every small and overlooked and misunderstood creature that needed him.

Genesis turned back to the beginning of the chapter and began to read through it again.

The small things still bothered him. Errors, no matter how minor, always stood out to him. And the sex itself was still strange to him—Genesis had always held the opinion that sex was terribly mechanical and repulsive when it concerned other people, and that everyone else seemed to think otherwise was a complete mystery to him—but it seemed to be enjoyable for all parties involved in the narrative. The part that troubled him most was the rest of it, the parts where the narrator would be fixed on his lover's care or gentleness or beauty. The parts about _being safe in his arms_ and _feeling the love in his caresses _and _wanting to be fully together with him, two halves of one whole_.__

__Though he felt stupid for thinking it, Genesis couldn't rid himself of the notion that there was no possible way that anyone, even someone as accepting as Mirk, could ever think of him in those terms. Those emotions were saved for _good_ things, _good_ people._ _

__Genesis knew he wasn't one of them. He was bad through and through and, worse still, in popular opinion, he didn't feel guilty about it—it was who he was, and there was no changing it. The world needed monsters as much as it needed saints. But there were other rules the universe worked by too. The monster took while the saint gave. The monster broke and the saint made things whole again. The saint was honored and adored and the monster was feared, cursed, hated. That was the way things were supposed to be. No one was supposed to _love_ the monster._ _

__Especially not a saint._ _

__Genesis was drawn out of his thoughts by a familiar tugging on his magic. It was the House; it was grumbling and rearranging itself and pulling back its shadows to accommodate a teleportation spell. Closing the novel in a hurry, all melancholy banished by the terrifying thought of Mirk seeing him reading one of his novels and thinking he actually _liked_ them. Genesis glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece above the cold hearth as he went to put the book back where it'd been, wondering how much of his evening he'd wasted on the (ultimately mostly useless) book. Just after two in the morning. _ _

__“Three hours,” Genesis muttered to himself, snatching a spellbook at random and beating a hasty retreat back into bed with it. Though he'd opened it and stared at it for a good ten minutes by the time the doorknob began to rattle, Genesis still wasn't exactly sure which spellbook he was holding. He listened to Mirk arguing with the lock. It took him four tries, but eventually the door relented and creaked open. Blindly, Mirk slapped around at the wall beside it until he he hit the rune that turned on the magelights. Before Mirk could spot him looking, Genesis retrained his eyes on the spellbook. Angelic runes, that's what it was about. Appropriately tedious for bedtime reading._ _

__“Oh! Gen, you're awake.”_ _

__“...yes?” he replied, without yet looking up._ _

__“I'm glad,” Mirk said, with a laugh that was still a bit out of breath, as he began to tear himself out of his things. Genesis heard the bag hit the floor near his dresser. Then the shoes, toed off somewhere nearby and scooted half-heartedly out of the way. “It's been one of those evenings, _messire_...”_ _

__Genesis looked up. Mirk was staring down at his discarded shoes and bag, expression lost. He was still unstable from being teleported, Genesis noted; his hands were trembling and his posture was off, completely deflated and defeated. The uncharacteristically tidy and subdued wool coat he'd put on over his good clothes had been torn at the shoulder, the whole arm of it half-removed, but if the healer had noticed, he wasn't preoccupied by it. Mirk cleared his throat. “Methinks I've forgotten, Gen. Where are the shoes all supposed to go?”_ _

__“It's...unimportant,” Genesis sighed, closing his book._ _

__Mirk looked over his shoulder at him, a smile coming back onto his face. As far as Genesis could tell, it was genuine. “Giving up after only a week? It's not like you, Genesis.”_ _

__Before Genesis could reply, Mirk had moved on, tugging off the coat and making a dismayed noise at the sleeve before dismissing it entirely, tossing it aside on the trunk at the end of the bed that Genesis had temporarily banished Mirk's ever-growing collection of patchwork quilts to. “I'll take care of it in the morning, I promise. Poor Étienne...he made friends with the wrong people again. He's just too trusting, and it's me saying that. In debt to a whole pack of werewolves too...”_ _

__Genesis lost track of Mirk's rambling conversation quickly, as he watched him undress. It amazed him—the healer was so unconcerned by it all, both by where his clothes fell and by whether or or not Genesis happened to be watching him. Rather than rushing into his nightshirt, Mirk took his time to stretch, to linger, to consider exactly which specimen from his appalling collection he'd chose that evening. A large purple-black bruise was spreading across his shoulder and upper back. If Mirk felt it, he was hiding it well. He settled on a nightshirt that was subdued for his tastes, subdued but well worn, its collar and cuffs frayed and tinged gray with use. Genesis looked back at his book and made another attempt at concentrating on it. A few minutes passed._ _

__“Well, if we're reading...hmm...what do I feel like...”_ _

__Against his better instincts, Genesis looked up. Mirk was surveying his collection of novels, index finger pressed against his lips as he thought. The old nightshirt was particularly long for him too, falling past mid-shin. Still, it wasn't long enough to hide all of the bruises on his leg, on the same side as those on his shoulder. A fall? Thrown into a wall? It was impossible to be certain. Mirk was the first to prod others about every last cut and scrape, but made it a point to never mention his own._ _

__“Ah! _Ici_...”_ _

__Though he'd expected it from the start, Genesis still felt a little uneasy when he saw Mirk snatch up the book he'd been reading before, about the damn viscount. Before Genesis could decide whether or not he wanted to question Mirk's choice of evening entertainment, he had crawled into bed, heavily favoring his unbruised side. Without hesitation, he slid over close beside him, bringing both his own horrible floral pillow and all of the duvet with him._ _

__“That's better...” Mirk sighed, flipping the book open. He'd turned to chapter fifteen._ _

__There were two things he could ask about, Genesis thought—one that was likely to lead to a pleasant conversation, and one that wasn't. As always, unpleasantness won out. The book had, after all, consumed far more of his evening than Genesis thought it merited in the first place._ _

__Genesis turned a page of the runes book. “You appear...to have been in an...altercation.”_ _

__Mirk waved him off, laughing. “It wasn't anything dangerous.”_ _

__“...no?”_ _

__“I just fell. You know how I am, Gen...”_ _

__'Yes,” Genesis replied, flatly. “More than...capable of fighting without...tripping over your own feet.”_ _

__Shaking his head, ruefully, Mirk looked up on him. Smiling, still. Genuine. Genesis was mostly useless when it came to reading expressions, but telling whether Mirk was fine or faking was one of the few things he could sort out—when he was faking, he squinted his eyes a fraction too much. “I _did_ fall. I was just helped along the way.”_ _

__“I...see.”_ _

__“It's all taken care of, _messire_. There's no need for you to go off looking for someone to get back at for it.”_ _

__“Your...familial concerns are no...interest of mine.”_ _

__Mirk shot him a disbelieving look._ _

__“Yes?'_ _

__“If anyone goes missing, I'll know right away who to blame for it.”_ _

__Genesis shrugged. “The chaos...does as it wishes.”_ _

__Mirk shook his head, turning his attention back to his book. “There's no stopping you anyway, I suppose.”_ _

__“Correct.”_ _

__Laughing, Mirk flipped a page. “I really don't see why you can't get along with Sol. You have a lot in common...well...you're less furry, I suppose...”_ _

__“I am not like your...accursed dog,” Genesis grumbled, giving up on his book, shutting it and dismissing it off back to its proper shelf with a wave of his hand and a flicker of shadows._ _

__“You're not exactly the same, of course. I've never been woken up by you licking my feet.”_ _

__Genesis shuddered. Snickering to himself, Mirk continued reading. Genesis scanned the page he could see, frowning. The confession bit._ _

__“Oh. You're done already?” Mirk asked, glancing sideways at his empty hands. He must have reached the scene break. “I was at the best part,” he added, mostly to himself._ _

___The best part?_ “I fail to see why it matters. You've...read the thing more than once.”_ _

__“Don't you have favorite stories?”_ _

__“I've never seen the purpose.” A story was a story—perhaps pleasant, perhaps exciting, but always false. If he felt the need to read about the lives of others, the old K'maneda histories were at least useful._ _

__Mirk sighed, thinking, shutting the book but holding one finger in it to keep his place. “This story makes me feel better. It has a happy ending. It's nice to see people get what they've always wanted. Especially if they've been waiting a long time.”_ _

__“They are not real. The story...is imaginary.”_ _

__Mirk shook his head. “It's hope, Genesis. It doesn't matter whether it's a story or a history; it's about having hope. It makes me feel like I'll have a happy ending yet too.”_ _

__There it was again—the sick feeling, a feeling like falling, like having his stomach slashed open and finding himself looking down at his innards ruining another set of new bootlaces. Genesis didn't know which word to put to it. The only one he could think of that came remotely close was one no one alive understood anymore: _sak'cda_ , missing a step, losing a limb, betraying a someone badly enough to lose their trust. _C'ayetnak_ words for feelings always seemed to also describe bodily injuries, regardless of whether the emotion was negative or positive._ _

__Genesis didn't know how to respond. So he changed the flow of the conversation, lying down instead as if to go to sleep, flat on his back, arms at his sides, eyes closed, though he knew for certain that the action was pointless. He wouldn't be sleeping that night. And the lights were just as bright with his eyes closed as they were with them open. “Read as long as you wish. Only...remember to turn off the...lamp.”_ _

__He heard Mirk open the book again. A second later, he felt his back press against his arm, as he curled up beside him._ _

__“Thank you, Genesis.”'_ _

__It confused him every time: _you're welcome_ was the right response, the next line on the unwritten script others used to act out being human, but as always, he didn't see the connection. Welcome to what? Welcome to his tolerance, his leniency, his mercy? _ _

__He sighed. “Good...night.”_ _

__Mirk made a faint affirmative noise, pressed closer against him, and continued to read._ _

__\- - -_ _

__The room was dark. Cold. Immaculately neat. As a concession to him, Genesis waved on the lamp on the dresser as he entered._ _

__Genesis could see perfectly fine in the dark. That was why there was only one lamp in the room. Accommodations had been made for him elsewhere, however—crisp, identical shirts and trousers had been grudgingly pushed aside to make room for his shabby, informal wardrobe, exactly half of the books on the shelves had migrated to the House's libraries, the fireplace would occasionally spit out some hot embers if Mirk found himself shivering in the middle of the night. But Genesis either didn't recognize that one lamp was hardly enough to see by in the plain, tomb-like bedroom, or wasn't quite ready yet to make one last alteration._ _

__There was also the distinct lack of sex, but that was a whole other matter entirely._ _

__Mirk was beginning to have concerns. The first few nights, he hadn't been surprised; as he was always telling Yule and Danu, it was foolish to think that Genesis would shove aside his long-established routines all at once, in love or not. The next few he wrote off as Genesis's mind being elsewhere. He and K'aekniv had been going out for days in search of some Imperial angels that were still lost in the forest that the last battle of the war had been fought in, and Mirk could tell by how miserable Genesis was when he came back that they were having little success. And that K'aekniv was once again neglecting to realize that sub-freezing temperatures and endless walking over hard terrain took a toll on people who weren't used to marching and weren't impervious to the cold. But they'd finally caught up with the angels three days ago, and since then Genesis had been doing nothing more strenuous than lurking about the infirmary, waiting for him and the rest of the healers to leave the deserters alone so that he could interrogate them further. Mirk had tried to convince Genesis that trying to play word games with the head of the flight, Rao, was useless—he had met Rao's father a handful of times and the Host Commander had made no attempt to hide the fact that his firstborn son's stubbornness gave him endless trouble. Unfortunately, Genesis was equally stubborn._ _

__Which left no good reason for Genesis to be actively putting off intimacy, said stubbornness aside, other than a lack of desire. Or uncertainty over how to begin without the pretext of the couch there to grant him permission. Or not knowing exactly how it worked, somehow. Either way, it seemed that it would be up to him, yet again, to nudge things onward._ _

__As usual, Genesis made immediately for the closet to get undressed. Though Mirk could tell that he disliked doing it in front of him, it hadn't yet stopped him: altering the routine was unacceptable, even if it meant making himself uncomfortable in the process. Mirk hopped up on the edge of the oversized bed to wait, kicking off his sandals as he considered his options and listened to Genesis change._ _

__First the weapons came off. The process was an indistinct series of rattles and clanks and clasps being undone, as sword and knives and other cunning devices were all tucked back into their proper places after being checked for damage. Then came the coat. Next would be the boots._ _

__An idea floated into his mind, though Mirk wasn't certain he'd take things where he wanted it to. “Why don't you come sit down? Methinks it'd be easier to take those things off that way...”_ _

__Genesis stepped out from behind the closet door, shooting him a skeptical look. Mirk patted the bed beside him with what he hoped was an inviting smile. After a few moments of deliberation, Genesis crossed the room and sat down, beginning the slow process of unlacing the tall boots that, in Mirk's opinion, clashed horribly with the rest of his conservative attire. Genesis claimed, ever sensibly, that tall boots were the only logical way to protect one's legs from being bruised to incapacity while kicking someone to death. Furthermore, (and probably more importantly) they were the only reasonable way to ensure not dragging his pants legs through something. Mirk thought no one had a right to wear knee-high boots everywhere unless they were an equestrian or going to one of those dance clubs where everyone wore an excessive amount of leather and belts. Especially with a uniform. That bordered on cruelty._ _

__Resolve bolstered by the sight nevertheless, Mirk slipped out of his shirt while Genesis was distracted, casting it aside onto the floor. The commander looked up at this, frowning._ _

__“What...have I told you about...that?”_ _

__Mirk shrugged. “It's not hurting anything by being there.”_ _

__“And the sandals...should be in the closet.”_ _

__“They should.” Still, Mirk didn't get up to move them. He could sense Genesis staring at him. Hopefully, it was at his bare chest, or the skin left shoving by his overly baggy, but comfortable trousers. Mirk didn't look at him, hoping that some combination of annoyance and desire would tempt him into making a move, if left to his own devices._ _

__He didn't. With a tired sigh, Genesis set to work on his other boot. And then, once he'd finished and taken off his socks, got up again, taking Mirk's sandals with him as he returned to the closet. Determined not to give up just yet, Mirk shifted over onto his stomach, lying on the bed with his face propped up in his hands, fixing a nonchalant look on his face. Genesis turned back around to pick up Mirk's shirt, pausing once he noticed he was staring at him._ _

__“What?” Mirk asked, with what he imagined to be a coy tilt of his head._ _

__“'...nothing.” He folded the shirt, notably less precisely than usual, and went back to the closet._ _

__Closer. He had to be getting closer. The more he disturbed the routine, the more likely it was that Genesis would deviate from it. Mirk rolled over onto his back, fanning out his hair behind him, stretching out with arms splayed invitingly, knees bent and pressed together. In his haste, Genesis had pushed the closet door all the way open when he returned to it that time. Mirk watched him closely as he tucked his shirt away into the laundry basket. He then turned to his own, unbuttoning his long overshirt and folding it away quickly, then moving on to his undershirt. He paused before taking it off, looking back at Mirk._ _

__“Go on,” Mirk said, as casually as possible._ _

__“Why...are you watching me?”_ _

___At least he noticed,_ Mirk thought. “Does it matter? It isn't like I haven't seen it before, you know.”_ _

__Making a disgruntled noise, Genesis lifted the shirt up over his head. His skin was a cold white in the faint light of the lamp, smooth aside from a few healing scars. It made Mirk's fingers twitch, made him seriously consider jumping off the bed and lunging at him like a man half-starved. Genesis undid his belt and hung it up before turning to look at Mirk again._ _

__Mirk cleared his throat. “Though, methinks I might have an unfair advantage. You’ve never seen…”_ _

__Genesis scowled and went back to undressing._ _

__What else could he do? Tell him point blank? Being blunt could work...or it could put him off it entirely. Instead, Mirk pushed his pants lower on his hips, almost too revealing, but not quite. He watched the commander slide out of his pants, sidling a bit deeper into the closet as he did so, but not quite enough to hide himself completely in its shadows. Mirk eyed up his long, thin legs, all bone and muscle with barely any trace of softness. He didn’t wear shorts underneath his uniform, like most people did in the present century. Instead, he wore a strange kind of form-fitting garment of the sort he'd been puzzled to see men and women running around wearing in public while they were doing athletics in the summer heat. Genesis claimed they conferred some sort of health benefit, which Mirk had been surprised (and a bit annoyed) to find was true. Despite constant heckling to the contrary, he actually did have a backside, though, admittedly, it was a dozen or so missed meals away from vanishing._ _

__Mustering his determination, Mirk spoke again. “You can stay like that, if you want.”_ _

__Genesis glanced at him over one shoulder, suspicious. “…what?”_ _

__“I sleep like that.” Mirk paused, biting his lip as he continued. It was a delicate balancing act, when to push and when to draw back. It was enough to make him nervous, despite knowing exactly what he wanted. In excruciating, long-awaited detail. “Or with less.”_ _

__Genesis didn’t turn away—he was staring at him again, which Mirk chose to interpret as a good sign. “I do not…favor your Continental habits.”_ _

__“Why not?”_ _

__“I…it is…rather…”_ _

__“Look.” Mirk wriggled out of his trousers, nearly taking his underclothes with them on accident. He cast them aside, far from the closet, hoping to coax Genesis out further into the light again. “Now we’re even.”_ _

__Grumbling miserably, Genesis slunk out of the closet to snatch them up. He turned and looked down at him before going to put them away. Mirk noted with approval that the commander's eyes flickered down the length of his body before resting on his face. “I cannot help but think…”_ _

__“What?”_ _

__“It seems evident that…”_ _

__“That?”_ _

__Genesis shook his head, dismissing him with a wave of his hand, returning to the closet. He folded the trousers, slowly. To Mirk’s delight, he didn’t move promptly on to unfolding his pajamas. Instead, he turned to face him once more, arms folded defensively over his chest. It didn’t do much to hide anything. Mirk sat up on his side, one hand tracing the stitching on the black blankets in what he thought to be an at least somewhat seductive manner._ _

__“Are you attempting to provoke me?”_ _

__Mirk shrugged. “Provoke? Does this really make you angry?”_ _

__“Not…to anger.”_ _

__“Oh?”_ _

__After a lengthy pause and a drawn-out sigh, Genesis crossed back to the bed and sat down, albeit at a distance from him. Mirk was beginning to feel guilty for pressuring him; if he wasn't interested, it was only right to leave it at that. Mirk sat up and crossed his legs, watching Genesis's expression carefully._ _

__“What is it really, Genesis?”_ _

__“I…” Conflicted. Torn. Mirk waited, unable to press him any further with a clear conscience. If he was going to do it, Mirk decided, it had to be on his terms. Mirk could tell that his signals had been received. Now it was just a matter of Genesis coughing up a response.“It is…I thought…this sort of thing was supposed…to be…” Seemingly at a loss, he fell silent again._ _

__“What? Romantic?” Mirk asked, laughing._ _

__Though Mirk thought for a moment that Genesis was going to spit out an agreement, he shook his head instead. “It is...nearly impossible to find a proper book on the matter, I'll have you know. There is a certain...lack of procedural continuity in the available selection.”_ _

__Mirk couldn’t help but feel sympathetic toward his flummoxed partner, despite his own frustration. It had happened before, Genesis getting so hung up on details and perfection that he froze up and refused to go forward at all. Mirk scooted over next to him, putting a hand on his arm. “There really isn't only one way to do it, Gen."_ _

__"I...understand this, however—"_ _

__Mirk cut him off before he could launch into the protective obscurity of one of his convoluted rants on clarity of composition and inaccurate diagrams. "Any way is good enough for me.”_ _

__“…any way,” he replied, voice flat, disbelieving._ _

__Mirk leaned up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “As long as it’s you.”_ _

__And it was the truth—he didn't care how awkward or fumbling or backwards it was, not in the slightest. Because any way it happened, it would be distinctly _his_ , like everything else he did, distinct even when he made an effort to conform to what he saw other people do. As the years had passed, as the commander had risen in the ranks and he had spent more time at his side, Genesis had steadily stopped bothering to try to do things the way everyone else did when he was with him. The more things he did his own way, the more Mirk had found himself falling in love with him. There was never any lie to what Genesis did, never any posturing or flattering, never any polite deference or feigned concern. Mirk didn't mind not being able to feel his emotions._ _

__Mirk trusted him._ _

__Genesis thought things over for an agonizingly long time before finally turning to face him. “Come…here.”_ _

__Mirk couldn’t resist. He shot Genesis a curious look. “Where?”_ _

__With a sigh of frustration, Genesis reached over and picked him up, easily, setting him down in his lap so that they were face to face. “Why must you…always feign ignorance?”_ _

__He laughed, reaching up and wrapping his arms around his neck. “Because it’s funny. And it makes you do things.”_ _

__Though he frowned for a moment first, Genesis kissed him regardless, slow and searching, a kiss that Mirk eagerly returned, licking at his lips._ _

__“Like that,” Mirk said, breaking the kiss but not lowering his face away from his._ _

__“...ah. Ulterior motives.”_ _

__Mirk grinned. “Just a few.”_ _

__And then his lips were on him again, harder. It was almost surreal, save for the feel of his smooth, only faintly warm skin of his shoulders under Mirk's hands. He leaned forward with all his weight, pushing Genesis over onto his back. Still, Genesis didn’t break the kiss. But he did put his hands on him, finally, tracing lines of coolness down his sides and then up his back. With a muffled sound of approval, Mirk pressed up into them, hoping it’d encourage Genesis to explore further._ _

__It worked for once, his hands sliding down further than before, as far down his legs as he could reach, then up the insides of his thighs, fingers creeping up under his shorts. Mirk let go of Genesis's shoulders for a moment to tug the shorts off and kick them aside. He felt Genesis pause. But a few kisses to his neck got him to pick up where he left off, got him to run his hands over his backside and clench, slightly, as Mirk ran his tongue around the shell of his ear._ _

__More. He needed more. Mirk slid a hand down his chest, tracing a spell on him as he went, activating it while distracting him with another hard kiss on the lips. It was a spell of the nerves, one that enhanced pleasure and heightened the sense of touch, a common enough bit of magic made complex by having to know how to recast it so that it could reach past Genesis's chaotic magic. But by then, after so many years of fighting with it and coaxing it into accepting him, the staticky patterns of his shadows were like a familiar song to him, a delicate, tipsy spiral of gaps and breaks in Genesis's magic through which he could connect himself to his body, if only for a second._ _

__His reaction was instant. With a hiss, Genesis rolled over on top of him, shifting his lips to his neck, pressing hard kisses to it that were nearly bites. After a moment he paused, growling beside his ear in a way that made a shiver run through him._ _

__“Do not...use your healer's tricks on me.”_ _

__“You could return the favor...I'm sure you know _something_ that'd be nice...”_ _

__“...fine.”_ _

__It wasn't what he'd been expecting, yet, at the same time, it was exactly the sort of thing Genesis would do: rather than pressing onward quickly, hungrily, he slowed his motions, lowering his lips to the base of his neck with a sort of deliberateness that made Mirk's stomach go tight with anticipation._ _

__Mirk reached out to him with his magic, tugging at the chaos that kept him from reading his thoughts and emotions, working his way into its non-pattern until he was close enough to get a sense of what was going on inside him. It took all his concentration to hold it—he could only see past his magic for a moment._ _

__For once, Genesis wasn’t cold inside, wasn’t conflicted. Nothing was tainted with the horrible, bottomless darkness that Mirk felt in his mind when he was on the edge of dying or killing. Instead there was only desire, want, deeper feelings beneath them, maybe something like care, love. Mirk opened himself to him without hesitation, projecting back his desire, though he knew it wasn't likely Genesis could feel it._ _

__Mirk wrapped his legs around him, and in turn Genesis rubbed against him. Then he was kissing lower, across his chest. Everything was new, and Genesis never quite did what he expected him to—when he came to one of his nipples and raked his teeth across it, it was enough to make him yelp in surprise, then groan as he pressed down and sucked at it. Mirk’s fingers dug into his back, managing to do little more than hold on against the waves of feelings, of sensations. It made him dizzy with want, made it so that he was not quite certain what Genesis was doing to him anymore, other than that it was good, and was making him hard and twitchy with want._ _

__Genesis sat up, reluctantly. He was breathing hard, eyes sharp in the half light, a flickering blackness circling around in them that intrigued him. Mirk reached up and grabbed hold of the binding on his hair, pulling it off and throwing it aside. He thought he looked more handsome like that, the sheets of smooth black locks tumbling over his shoulders, long enough to brush against Mirk’s chest. It lessened the severity of his expressions. It made everything seem more private, more intimate as they kissed again, shrouded from the outside by it._ _

__Genesis took hold of the blankets, and with a yank, they vanished. The coolness of the sheets beneath them shocked him for a moment, made him freeze. Genesis leaned over him to reach the nightstand handle, pulling it open and snatching out the bottle Mirk had put there._ _

__“You did see it,” Mirk mumbled, as he caught his breath._ _

__“I am not…as oblivious as you suspect.” He popped the cork out of it, setting it deliberately aside on the nightstand, pouring a small amount of the liquid out into his hand and rubbing it between his fingers, expression critical. Mirk knew that it would be warm, that it was laced with the same spell he’d put on Genesis earlier. He'd made it himself, made it to please. Genesis poured a few drops more into his hand, hesitant. Unable to keep from rolling his eyes a bit, Mirk took it from him, disappearing the scant remainder of Genesis's clothes with a pass of his hand, brute forcing his way through the mixed synthetic fibers and probably ripping it in the process. Genesis was, for once, too distracted to complain. Mirk poured the rest of the bottle’s contents into his hand and dropped it, tentatively taking hold of Genesis’s length, stroking to coat it._ _

__He didn’t know what he’d been expecting—he'd seen it before, of course, but never like that, and had only felt him through Genesis's seemingly interminable layers of clothing that had finally, finally disappeared. There was more than he'd estimated. Genesis hissed and groaned at every stroke, body shaking as he fought to keep his weight from bearing down on him completely, eyes closing until Mirk drew his hand away. Mirk shifted away from him, making room to let him slide his hand under him. Genesis started cautiously, with trepidation that could have been either fear of hurting him or his excessive fear of contamination; it was impossible to tell through Genesis's magic._ _

__It did hurt. But he’d been expecting it to, and tried to bury the feeling deep inside his mind, under the desire, lest Genesis make sense of some uncomfortable expression on his face and pull away. Mirk clenched the sheets with both hands, head turned to one side, biting his lip. The pain eased some as he became accustomed to the feeling of his long fingers inside of him, as Genesis slowly added a second, then, after Mirk had given him an impatient nudge with one knee, a third. He was deep inside of him before it finally came—a bolt of pleasure, one that made him nearly yell in surprise, hips thrusting upward. In an instant, the pain became something distant, a faint annoyance that was overwhelmed with want. Distantly, only barely making words out through the rushing of blood in his ears, he heard Genesis mumbling to himself._ _

__“...hmph...worthless books...completely inaccurate...two centimeters off, at least...”_ _

__“What?” Mirk gasped._ _

__“...nothing.”_ _

__Mirk groaned, giving a full-body twitch as Genesis pressed at him again. And again. He was so hard it _hurt_ , the impatience mounting within him.“ _Allez, allez-y. donc..._ ”_ _

__“I...hardly think the formal conjugation to be necess—”_ _

__Though he had to hurl himself at him with all his strength, though it knocked his fingers out of him, Mirk shoved Genesis over onto his back and rolled on top of him. He stared up at him, expression almost comically surprised._ _

__“...yes?”_ _

__Unable to keep from rolling his eyes, Mirk sat up, scooting down until he was sitting on his thighs. Before Genesis could make another comment, Mirk began to stroke him again, making it a point to stare at him as he continued, slow and deliberate. Whatever distance Genesis had been managing to keep himself at evaporated with a few sweeps of his hand—the darkness was flickering in his eyes again, and though Mirk could tell he was straining to keep up a composed facade, he was losing the battle. Grinning, Mirk released him, shifting forward and positioning himself over his hips._ _

__The remainder of Genesis's composure broke the instant he began to ease himself down onto him, the commander making a strangled, hissing noise, gaping at him with wide eyes that had gone pitch black. The pleasure of finally having inside of him was just as satisfying as the pleasure of seeing him in such a state, twitching and groaning beneath him, all semblance of control vanished. Genesis was at his mercy. And he _liked_ it, his hands fumbling for a hold on Mirk's hips, body arching upward to meet him._ _

__Though he ached for him, though his mind was shouting at him to move harder, faster, to sink fully down on top of him and ride him to his climax, Mirk forced himself to go slower, keeping his dips shallow. Slower. Slower until Genesis was cursing him in clicks and growls, fingernails biting into the skin of his thighs._ _

__Mirk tried for a teasing tone, but could only manage to sound pleading, to his own ears. “If you want something, Gen...”_ _

__He didn't have to ask twice. Mirk didn't resist as Genesis reached for him, clutching him back tight against his chest as he rolled over on top of him again. Mirk helped him find the position he wanted, moving closer to him and wrapping his legs hard around him as he stretched out on his back. A few moments more and Genesis was pushing up into of him, slipping in and out until Mirk relaxed enough to take him all. He scrabbled at Genesis's arm until he lifted his hand. Mirk grabbed hold of it and wrapped his thin, long fingers around him, urging him to stroke._ _

__Genesis's magic was escaping him. Mirk could feel it curling around him, cool and staticky, as Genesis stared down at him with eyes that had shifted back to clear, focused blue. He was out of breath; a trace of red had bloomed on the sides of his face. His hair was a mess, tangled on his shoulders and stuck to Mirk's chest. It was hard to tell, Mirk realized, where his hair ended and the shadows began._ _

__Mirk shifted his hips a bit. Genesis hit the right spot again, the one that made him moan and sent Mirk's body arching upward. He reached out with both arms, having to try twice before he caught hold of him and pulled him down within reach for a kiss, breathless and hard, all slick wetness and teeth and tongue._ _

__He didn’t last long; he couldn’t, not like that, not after having waited and wanted for so long. Mirk climaxed with a shudder and a gasp, a climax followed soon by Genesis’s, a feeling of warmth filling him and sending a shudder of delight through his still-shaking limbs. Slowly, the strength left his arms, leaving him limp on his back without the strength to do so much as lean up and kiss Genesis, who was still kneeling half-upright between his legs. Fortunately, Genesis collapsed beside him soon enough, wrapping him up into his arms, kissing him lightly, on the forehead._ _

__They lay like that for a time, Mirk too winded to speak and Genesis too reticent, pressed tight against each other. Then Genesis found the strength to indulge his fastidiousness and repositioned both of them, dragging Mirk up onto the bed’s pillows._ _

__“I…should not have…been so...hesitant to start this,” Genesis muttered, mostly to himself._ _

__Mirk laughed, with what little air he’d regained. “As long as it doesn’t take you so long to do it again.”_ _

__“I…suspect it will no longer…be an issue.”_ _

__They lay in silence together. Mirk felt no need for words; Genesis's presence beside and around him was all he needed, the barely audible hiss of his breath and the press of his body that, for once, wasn't much colder than his own filling him with a feeling of safety, contentment. Gradually, Mirk's breathing evened out. He was on the verge of sleep when he felt Genesis’s arms release him. Mirk supposed Genesis thought he was being sneaky, waiting for him to sleep before edging out of the room, most likely for a shower and an obsessive bout of hand-washing. He laughed, low under his breath, as he heard the bedroom door close._ _

__Some things never changed._ _

__Mirk was content to remain spread out on the bed, relishing the pleasant sensation of sweat evaporating from his skin, the residual warmth warding off the chill for the time being. He could still smell Genesis on himself, that faint scent of lilies and something else, something dark and unidentifiable that he knew as well as the sound of Genesis's voice, as well as he knew the network of vessels and veins that kept Genesis alive. Mirk waited, fighting off sleep until Genesis returned. The commander muttered something indistinct over the potion bottle that had been dropped on the floor and magically swapped out the dirty sheets before sliding back in next to him, bringing the blankets up along with him. Mirk was glad he'd cooled off. In love or not, Mirk didn't know if Genesis could handle going to sleep with his arms wrapped around someone who was sweating It surprised him for a moment that Genesis had come back undressed. Then again, a body was washable, whereas clothing could be ruined beyond hope by any number of illogical things, including the slightest perspiration._ _

__“Hello again,” Mirk said, amused by the way this startled Genesis, just a bit._ _

__“…ah…”_ _

__“It’s fine, dear. I knew you’d come back.”_ _

__“…right.”_ _

__A pause. “I…”_ _

__“Yes?”_ _

__“You…it…” he gave up and resorted to something else, something hissing and low in his native language. “ _K’ssak tak, ak-amk’n._ ”_ _

__“What does that mean?”_ _

__“It…roughly translated…I…care for you. Small shade. It's…a term of affection for one’s…closest person.”_ _

__Mirk slid his arms back around him, kissing his chest, unable to keep from laughing a little. “I love you too, Genesis.”_ _

__“Ah…yes. Well.”_ _

__“You’ll get used to it.” Mirk said, patting his back a little._ _

__At least, it was certainly something Mirk could get used to hearing, again and again, as often as Genesis’s roundabout way of speaking would allow him to say it._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to see more post-Canticle stuff, feel free to drop a comment and tell me what you're curious about~ <3

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, minor note: aside from being completely incomprehensible to anyone but him, Niv's ideas about what's "manly" and what's "womanly" are pretty weird. The bit he's going on in this piece is the difference between the bodybuilder physique and the strongman physique. Obviously, the latter is better. Since, you know, that's what he is--as big as a house, not particularly lean, and fully capable of lifting cars/small dwellings.
> 
> Okay, one more note: yes, the amount Niv drinks is enough to kill the average person, or at least leave them in a useless puddle on the floor. However, aside from being the designated drinker for 300 years, Niv's 7'2" and weighs 500 pounds and change. Dude's got hella tolerance. (No, seriously, 500 some pounds. Consider: Hafthor Bjornsson's 6'9" and weighs around 400. Niv's built the same, is half a foot taller, and has giant wings. Actually not an unreasonable weight.) All right, that's it for notes, I swear, honestly.


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